CONCERT 
PITCH 

FRANK  DANBY 


p^'^w^  I^^PT^ 


DONATED  BY 

MR.  &  MRS.  BERNAL  H.  DVAS 


CONCERT  PITCH 


OP  CALIF.  LIBRAE?,  LOS  AHGELES 


THE  MACMILLAN   COMPANY 

NEW  YORK   •    BOSTON   •    CHICAGO 
ATLANTA  •    SAN  FRANCISCO 

MACMILLAN  &  CO..  LIMITED 

LONDON   •    BOMBAY   •    CALCUTTA 
MELBOURNE 

THE  MACMILLAN  CO.  OF  CANADA,  LTD. 

TORONTO 


CONCERT   PITCH 


BY 


FRANK   DANBY 
u 

>v 

,    I//  <     }     f 


AUTHOR  OF  "THE  HEART  OF  A  CHILD," 
"PIGS  IN  CLOVER,"  ETC. 


THE  MACMILLAN   COMPANY 
1913 


COPYRIGHT,  1913,  BT 
THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 


Set  up  and  electrotyped.    Published  February,  1913 


Printed  by  J.  J  Little  &  Ives  Co.,  New  York 


CONCERT  PITCH 


CHAPTER  I 

WHEN  Sir  Hubert  and  Lady  Wagner  bought  and 
practically  rebuilt  Stone  House,  Piccadilly,  their 
position  in  Society  was  already  established.  After  Lady 
Sallust  took  them  up,  they  had  rented  the  family  man- 
sion of  the  Lyssons  in  St.  James's  Square  for  three 
seasons.  But,  naturally,  no  furnished  house,  however 
dignified,  could  roof  their  ambitions  indefinitely.  An 
imposing  place  of  their  own  was  essential,  with  at  least 
two  country  estates,  a  yacht  and  racing  stables. 

They  learned  their  requirements  slowly.  The  days 
seemed  now  very  remote  when  Lcetitia  thought  Kens- 
ington Palace  Gardens  was  a  distinguished  address,  but 
it  was  really  only  eight  years  since  she  and  her  husband 
had  come  home  from  South  Africa  with  a  million  or  so  of 
money,  her  two  stepchildren,  and  their  social  way  to  make. 
She  relied  then  on  her  connection  with  the  Briarleys  and 
her  pleasing  manners — manners  that  had  helped  her  to 
earn  a  living  in  days  even  more  remote,  before  she  had 
met  the  mining  magnate.  She  still  retained  her,  so  to 
speak,  professional  manner  and  the  photographic  smile 
that  went  with  it,  but  she  had  discarded  the  Briarleys. 
She  knew  now  that  even  the  head  of  the  family,  Sir  Jabez 
Briarley  himself,  was  of  no  moment  or  interest  in  the 
world  that  held  the  Sallusts.  She  shook  off  the  Briarleys 


2129578 


2  CONCERT   PITCH 

as  one  shakes  fleas  from  a  blanket.  It  was  ridiculous  to 
think  of  considering  their  feelings.  Loetitia  had,  as  she 
always  assured  her  friends,  a  great  sense  of  duty.  She 
would  not  have  been  doing  her  duty  to  her  husband,  his 
children,  and  the  great  position  they  had  all  attained  if 
she  included  any  of  her  relations  in  the  new  visiting-list 
of  Stone  House. 

"  You  agree  with  me,  don't  you,  dear  Lady  Sallust, 
they  would  be  incongruous,  painfully  incongruous,  it 
would  be  fair  neither  to  us  nor  to  them,  they  would  be 
uncomfortable.  ..." 

Of  course,  Lady  Sallust  agreed  with  her.  Lady  Sallust 
knew  nothing  about  the  many  kindnesses  the  Briarleys 
had  shown  Loetitia  in  her  poor  and  humble  days.  All 
Lady  Sallust  knew  was  that  the  Wagners  were  diabolically 
rich  and  the  political  party  for  which  she  stood  was 
in  need  of  money.  She  agreed  that  Lady  Wagner — for 
a  baronetcy  was  the  outward  sign  that  the  Wagner 
wealth  had  flowed  into  some,  at  least,  of  the  right  channels 
— was  quite  right  in  discarding  relations,  friends,  or 
acquaintances  who  might  impede  her  upward  flight. 
Lady  Sallust  did  not  even  combat  openly  Lady  Wagner's 
hint  that  Sir  Hubert's  daughter,  her  own  stepdaughter, 
might  aspire  to  a  duke.  Stone  House  had  been  acquired 
from  the  Banffs,  and  Calingford,  the  heir,  although  in  his 
fortieth  year,  was  still  a  bachelor.  Afterwards  Loetitia 
said  that  it  was  upon  Lady  Sallust's  advice  she  sent  for 
Manuella  before  her  education  was  complete,  in  order 
that  the  introduction  to  Calingford  might  be  effected 
quickly.  There  were  rumours  already  that  this  interest- 
ing nobleman  had  begun  to  see  the  error  of  his  ways  and 
his  musical  comedy  amourettes,  and  was  on  the  look-out 
for  a  suitable  alliance. 

It  was  eminently  appropriate  that  the  first  season  of 
the  Wagners  at  Stone  House  should  be  inaugurated  by 
the  coming-out  of  a  daughter,  and  a  series  of  entertain- 
ments with  a  grand  wedding  as  a  probable  climax.  For 
so  mean  a  soul  Loetitia's  aspirations  were  strangely  lofty. 
Lady  Sallust  never  ceased  to  marvel  at  her,  to  relate 


CONCERT    PITCH  3 

stories  about  her;  but  she  kept  to  the  unwritten  terms 
of  their  strange  alliance,  and,  with  certain  reservations, 
helped  her  consistently  to  soar  to  the  empyrean  heights 
of  her  dreams. 

She  explained  the  position  frankly  to  her  nephew, 
Waldo,  Earl  of  Lyssons,  just  home  from  East  Africa, 
newly  come  to  the  family  honours  and  incongruous  in 
them. 

"  The  Wagners  represent  everything  that  we  want 
least,  and  need  most.  The  man  is  fairly  possible ;  there 
are  always  people  who  will  talk  diet  and  drugs  with  him, 
he  is  only  really  interested  in  his  liver.  The  woman 
is  ...  well,  you  saw  for  yourself.  But  one  must  do 
something  for  one's  country.  We  can't  all  break  windows. 
I  know  you  are  wondering  why  I  sent  you  in  to  dinner 
with  her  last  night." 

Lady  Sallust  had  a  way  of  saying  two  or  three  things 
at  the  same  time,  and  was  sometimes  difficult  to  follow. 

"  Loetitia  Wagner  wanted  to  get  into  Society,  but  she 
went  all  the  wrong  way  about  it.  Charity  bazaars 
and  that  sort  of  thing.  I  did  not  know  when  I 
first  met  them  how  amazingly  rich  they  were.  After- 
wards, when  I  made  them  take  your  house  in  St.  James's 
Square  at  an  exorbitant  rent,  I  felt  it  my  duty  to  do 
something  for  them  in  return.  Oh  !  my  dear  boy,  believe 
me.  things  have  altered  since  you  were  last  home.  We 
have  been  out  of  office  for  seven  years !  Think  of  it,  and 
things  going  from  bad  to  worse  all  the  time.  But  first  I 
must  tell  you  that  Hubert  Wagner  contributed  fifty 
thousand  pounds  to  the  expenses  of  the  last  election. 
He  built  and  endowed  a  new  wing  for  the  County  Hospi- 
tal at  North  Leven,  gave  ten  thousand  pounds  for  a  park, 
and  presented  a  drinking  fountain.  And  then  we  had 
only  a  majority  of  fifteen !  We  are  bound  to  receive 
them,  to  make  much  of  them.  Do  speak,  Waldo;  don't 
sit  there  looking  so  tall  and  enigmatic  and  .  .  .  and 
disappointing.  If  the  Wagners  had  not  rented  the  house 
in  St.  James's  Square,  you  would  owe  six  thousand 
pounds  more." 


4  CONCERT    PITCH 

"  What  are  these  Wagners,  then  ?  How  did  they 
acquire  their  enormous  wealth  ?  " 

He  spoke  indifferently,  playing-  with  the  little  dog 
that  rolled  and  leaped  beside  him  like  a  kitten ;  it  was  a 
Pekingese,  only  second  to  himself  in  his  aunt's  affections. 

"  How  does  anybody  know  ?  What  does  it  matter  ? 
His  father  was  a  small  tobacco-planter,  I  have  been  told, 
in  Cuba,  Havana,  or  somewhere,  and  this  man  ran  away 
with  a  neighbouring  planter's  daughter.  Fortunately  he 
was  inspired  to  go  to  South  Africa,  and  it  was  in  the  good 
days  when  everybody  made  fortunes.  Of  course,  they  say 
he  began  by  illicit  diamond  buying." 

"  You  don't  mean  to  tell  me  the  woman  I  took  in  to 
dinner  last  night  ever  found  anyone  to  run  away  with 
her!" 

Lady  Sallust  laughed. 

"  No !  I  can't  imagine  anyone  running  away  with 
Lcetitia.  She  is  his  second  wife.  She  was  governess 
to  his  children  after  their  own  mother  died." 

"  A  governess !  That  accounts  for  it.  I  thought  she 
had  an  educational  manner.  She  put  me  through  quite 
a  stiff  examination,  and,  I  believe,  ploughed  me!  I 
haven't  been  to  the  Academy,  nor  to  any  of  the  theatres 
she  talked  about.  I  did  not  dine  with  the  Duke  of 
Glastonbury  last  week,  and  I  forget  where  I  spent  Easter. 
Why  on  earth  did  you  make  me  take  her  in  to  dinner? 
Did  you  think  I  wanted  disciplining,  that,  back  of  beyond, 
I  had  become  a  savage  ?  Heavens !  What  a  typical 
stepmother !  She  might  have  come  out  of  a  book.  Are 
they  boys  or  girls  ?  Poor  brats  !  " 

He  was  fond  of  his  aunt.  To  make  light  love  to  her 
was  his  way  of  showing  it.  And  at  fifty-seven  a  woman 
likes  being  made  love  to,  however  lightly,  for  vanity  dies 
more  slowly  than  sex. 

"Why  did  you  make  me  take  her  in  to  dinner?"  he 
repeated.  Now  he  lifted  Curio  on  to  his  knee,  toying  with 
its  ears,  talking  to  it,  as  the  little  creature  looked  up  at 
him  with  bright,  fascinated  eyes. 

"She  was  a  bad  aunt,  wasn't  she,   Curio?     A  bad 


CONCERT    PITCH  5 

cruel  aunt,  and  we  very  nearly  didn't  call  upon  her  this 
afternoon,  although  she  ordered  us  to  do  so  imperiously. 
We  don't  like  being  neglected  by  our  relations,  and  cross- 
examined  by  tight-lipped  females,  do  we,  Curio?" 

"  My  dear  boy,  do  be  serious.  Leave  off  talking 
rubbish;  put  Curio  down,  you  are  mesmerizing  him. 
He  will  begin  to  answer  you  in  a  moment ;  look  at  his 
eyes !  I  really  want  to  talk  to  you.  Yes ;  it  is  about 
the  Wagners.  Why  don't  you  guess?  I  cannot  make 
out  how  it  is  you  are  so  unlike  other  young  men  of  your 
age  .  .  .  any  other  young  man  would  have  guessed  by 
now." 

"  I  am  thirty-four,  auntie  dear,  not  nearly  so  young  as 
you.  I  have  lost  all  my  illusions,  whilst  you  still  believe 
in  the  Conservative  party!  You  are  ingenue,  a  positive 
ingenue,  compared  to  me." 

"  It  is  a  pity  you  have  been  out  of  England  so  many 
years,  that  you  are  so  out  of  touch  with  affairs." 

"  Affairs  of  the  heart !     What  have  you  to  tell  me  ?  " 

In  mock  dismay  he  deposited  the  dog  carefully  on  her 
lap,  changing  his  seat  to  one  beside  her  on  the  sofa. 

"  Tell  me  all  about  it.    What  have  you  done  ?  " 

She  laughed  at  him  and  patted  his  hand,  and  told  him 
not  to  be  absurd;  played  the  little  interlude,  and  then 
got  to  her  theme  again.  He  should  have  been  her  son. 
When  she  might  have  had  children  she  had  been  too  much 
occupied ;  now  she  was  sometimes  sorry  it  had  been  so. 

"  Did  you  never  think  it  possible  that  you  would 
inherit  ?  Did  no  one  ever  think  of  it  for  you  ?  " 

Waldo,  twentieth  Earl  of  Lyssons,  screwed  his  glass 
into  his  eye,  settled  himself  more  comfortably  among  the 
cushions  in  the  corner  of  the  sofa,  and  gave  the  question 
his  consideration. 

"  I  believe  my  father  did  mention  it  once  or  twice  when 
I  was  home  seven  or  eight  years  ago,  and  again  in  his 
letters.  He  was  always  an  optimist,  and  had  never  got 
on  well  with  my  bachelor  uncles.  When  Uncle  Ian  died, 
and  Wyndham,  he  wrote  to  me.  It  was  then  I  got 
lost  .  .  ." 


6  CONCERT    PITCH 

He  lost  himself  again  in  dreamland  for  a  moment.  For 
years  he  had  been  wandering  in  waste  spaces,  in  desert 
and  jungle;  what  women- folk  he  knew  he  had  never 
taken  seriously.  It  was  only  outside  confidences  he 
would  give  his  aunt. 

"  When  I  went  away  first,  there  were  eight  lives  be- 
tween me  and  my  grandfather,"  he  said,  when  he  came 
back  to  the  occasion. 

"  There  were  only  three  when  you  returned  from 
Nigeria." 

"  Three  such  good  lives,"  he  pleaded,  "  and  possibilities 
of  more." 

"  But  you  ought  to  have  thought  ..." 

"  Of  the  discomforts  of  dead  men's  shoes,  of  how  badly 
they  would  fit  me  ?  Dear  aunt,  you  surely  don't  mean  it." 
His  tone  was  still  light. 

"  Eight  lives  in  ten  years,  and  estate  duty  to  be  paid 
on  every  one  of  them !  That  is  the  point — the  point  I  am 
trying  to  make  you  see." 

They  were  in  that  luxurious,  flower-filled  drawing-room 
in  Grosvenor  Square.  Although  it  was  winter,  the  room 
was  full  of  roses,  lilies-of-the-valley,  mauve  and  yellow 
orchids.  From  the  walls  great  grandmothers,  great- 
aunts  and  far-off  cousins,  painted  by  Reynolds,  Gains- 
borough and  Lawrence,  looked  down  upon  their  confer- 
ence. There  was  priceless  china  on  the  mantelpiece  and 
in  corner  cupboards.  Lady  Sallust  had  been  a  Treford. 
There  were  vitrines  full  of  Treford  miniatures,  some  as 
early  as  Hilliard  and  Isaac  Oliver.  Lady  Sallust  herself 
suggested  nothing  of  the  quiet  pictorial  repose  of  an  old 
miniature,  she  was  anxious-faced,  well  dressed  and  ultra- 
modern in  manner.  But  this  was  an  affectation ;  she 
was  really  a  survival  or  return  to  type,  a  great  lady 
who  had  to  stoop  to  reach  to-day,  and  did  it  strenu- 
ously. 

"  You  bring  me  back  to  whence  I  started."  She  laid 
her  hand,  with  its  old-fashioned  rings,  upon  his  knee ; 
the  Trefords  had  always  been  celebrated  for  the  beauty 
of  their  hands.  "  You  have  not  talked  openly  to  me, 


CONCERT   PITCH  7 

but  your  uncle  has.  You  are  in  great  financial  difficulties, 
actually  in  debt.  ..." 

That  it  was  true  made  it  the  more  ridiculous;  he  was 
up  to  the  neck  in  debt,  although  never  in  his  life  had  he 
willingly  contracted  an  obligation  he  was  unable  to  fulfil. 

"  There  is  only  one  way  out  of  it — one  possible  way. 
You  must  marry  money ;  you  owe  it  to  the  family."  He 
moved  uneasily,  then  he  laughed. 

"  Go  on,"  he  said,  "  I  leave  myself  entirely  in  your 
hands — your  handsome  hands."  He  raised  the  one  on 
his  knee  and  kissed  it.  "  I  suppose  you  have  decided 
whose  money  I  am  to  marry?  Who  is  the  lucky  girl? 
Or  is  she  a  widow  ?  " 

"  Sir  Hubert  Wagner's  daughter,"  Lady  Sallust  an- 
swered immediately,  quickly,  irrevocably.  She  had  evi- 
dently been  over  it  all  in  her  own  mind,  not  once,  but 
many  times.  "  Sir  Hubert  will  give  her  a  million  of 
money,  a  million  of  money !  "  she  repeated.  "  I  have  it 
direct  from  Loetitia — if  the  girl  marries  to  please  them,  of 
course.  I  thought  of  you  directly  I  heard  it.  Their  own 
idea  is  Calingford ;  they  bought  Stone  House  from  the 
Duke,  you  know,  and  the  scheme  came  into  their  heads  at 
once.  The  Duke  is  almost  an  invalid ;  it  cannot  be  long 
before  Calingford  succeeds.  Loetitia  already  thinks  of  the 
girl  as  the  future  Duchess ;  I  can  see  it  in  her  eyes.  They 
are  sending  for  her  to  come  home  immediately,  although 
I  believe  her  education  is  not  finished,  and  she  is  not  yet 
eighteen.  Waldo  ..." 

It  was  evident  that  if  Lcetitia  had  set  her  heart  on  a 
ducal  alliance,  Lady  Sallust  was  equally  desirous  that  the 
girl  should  become  a  Countess. 

"  Waldo,  tell  me  I  may  speak  to  them  about  you,  and 
open  negotiations.  I  have  let  her  talk  to  me  about 
Calingford,  but  it  would  be  easy,  comparatively  easy,  to 
make  her  see  the  difference  in  your  quarterings.  A 
million  of  money,  Waldo !  There  is  no  one  at  all  in  our 
set  with  anything  like  it.  I  don't  want  you  to  have  to 
go  to  America  for  a  wife."  She  was  really  pleading  with 
him,  and  he  was  touched  by  her  interest,  by  her  affection. 


8  CONCERT   PITCH 

Waldo,  Lord  Lyssons,  with  whom  so  much  of  this 
story  is  concerned,  had  recently  inherited  one  of  the 
oldest  titles  in  the  United  Kingdom  and  the  lands  that 
went  with  it.  A  series  of  accidents  had  placed  him  in 
the  position  he  found  at  present  so  unenviable.  A  younger 
son  of  a  younger  son,  the  obscurest  cadet  of  this  ancient 
house,  he  had  been  called  to  fulfil  duties  for  which  he  had 
no  inclination,  recalled  to  a  civilization  the  formula  of 
which  he  had  almost  forgotten.  Heirs-presumptive  and 
heirs-collateral  had  died  incontinently.  They  had  gone 
down  in  the  Amazon,  been  lost  in  the  Waratah,  broken 
their  necks  in  military  steeplechases,  made  fatal  experi- 
ments with  aeroplanes,  contracted  typhoid  and  encouraged 
consumption.  It  seemed  now  that  all  he  had  inherited 
was  the  claims  of  the  Inland  Revenue,  a  bewilderment  of 
Land  Taxes  and  unsettled  Death  Duties.  His  forebears 
had  held  a  castle  against  Henry  I.  in  1118;  it  was  doubt- 
ful if  their  unworthy  descendant  would  hold  anything  at 
all  against  the  piratical  performances  of  a  Radical  Chan- 
cellor of  the  Exchequer.  He  had  heard  of  nothing  but 
claims,  claims,  claims.  All  these  weeks  since  his  return 
he  had  lived  in  dusty  lawyers'  offices,  learning  his  difficul- 
ties. Now  he  sat  in  Lady  Sallust's  drawing-room  in 
Grosvenor  Square,  and  was  told  them  over  again. 

But  the  suggestion  his  aunt  made  him,  and  made  so 
solemnly,  went  further  than  anything  the  lawyers  had 
proposed.  Lady  Sallust  challenged  his  personal  freedom, 
the  prerogative  of  his  manhood.  He  could  not  treat  her 
proposal  seriously,  for  seriousness  was  not  his  conversa- 
tional note. 

"  Is  it  quite  fair  on  the  girl,  even  if  you  do  succeed  in 
persuading  that  stupendous  stepmother  of  hers  to  lower 
her  pretensions  ?  You  must  think  of  that,  my  dear  aunt. 
A  duchess  is  ...  well,  you  know  a  duchess  is  always  a 
duchess." 

"  I  believe  you  are  laughing.  It  is  no  laughing  matter. 
Cuthbert  says  something  must  be  done,  and  done  quickly." 
She  could  not  have  been  more  in  earnest.  Cuthbert, 
who,  by  the  way,  was  Lord  Sallust,  once  a  Cabinet  Min- 


CONCERT    PITCH  9 

ister  and  always  an  important  figure  in  English  political 
life,  had  impressed  upon  her  the  seriousness  of  the  posi- 
tion. "  The  Inland  Revenue  people  have  been  very  lenient, 
he  says,  but  you  will  have  to  settle  with  them  sooner  or 
later." 

She  had  not  an  idea  how  little  impression  she  was 
making  upon  this  incomprehensible  nephew  of  hers. 

"  Cuthbert  says  everything  is  mortgaged  that  can  be 
mortgaged,"  she  urged. 

"  More  "  he  answered  with  cheerful  acquiescence,  "  ever 
so  much  more.  I  never  cease  wondering  how  they  did  it." 

"  And  you  agree  with  me  that  there  is  only  one  way 
out." 

'  To  become  a  Wagnerite." 

'  She  may  be  a  very  nice  girl." 

'  She  may  !  " 

'  And  I  would  help  you  with  her." 

'  Me !    Do  I  want  help  ?    Has  it  gone  as  far  as  that  ?  " 

'  Don't,  Waldo !  don't  jest.  This  is  really  a  critical 
moment.  She  is  to  be  presented  at  the  very  first  Court. 
You  know  how  desperately  hard  up  the  Banff s  are ;  they 
won't  lose  any  time." 

"  It  is  to  be  a  race,  then,  between  Calingford  and  me. 
And  the  girl,  the  hare, — isn't  she  to  have  any  start  ?  " 

"  Don't  be  exasperating.  It  is  what  girls  expect — to 
be  run  after." 

"  I  know,"  he  persisted ;  "  but  she  ought  to  have  a  fair 
start.  Now,  here  you  are,  you  dear  ladies,  laying  the 
scent,  putting  our  noses  to  it,  showing  us  the  trail,  whoo- 
hooping  us  away."  He  shook  his  head  with  mock 
solemnity.  "  No !  I  don't  think  it  fair.  Put  me  down  as 
having  scratched." 

"  You  are  really  perverse.  It  is  a  girl  and  not  a  hare ; 
they  hunt,  if  they  are  not  hunted.  You  ought  to  know 
that.  Why  shouldn't  she  fall  in  love  with  you  ?  You  are 
much  nicer  and  better-looking  than  Calingford." 

"  Oh !  that  is  quite  another  question.  You  never 
mentioned  that." 

There  was  a  carved  and  gilded  Chippendale  mirror  on 


io  CONCERT    PITCH 

the  wall  between  the  pictures.  He  walked  over  to  it  and 
regarded  himself  deliberately. 

"  You  are  sure  you  are  not  going  beyond  your  brief, 
that  she  will  be  given  a  run  ?  " 

Lady  Sallust  had  not  a  keen  sense  of  humour.  Waldo 
was  exasperating,  but,  of  course,  he  must  at  least  be  as 
well  aware  as  she  of  the  seriousness  of  his  position. 
Looking  at  him  as  he  posed  before  the  looking-glass  a 
little  dramatically  for  her  benefit,  she  thought,  if  the 
choice  were  given  to  her,  the  girl  would  certainly  prefer 
him  to  Lord  Calingford,  even  if  she  knew  nothing  of  the 
reputation  of  either  of  them. 

The  new  Earl  of  Lyssons  was  very  tall,  if  rather  too 
thin ;  he  had  black  hair  that  would  not  be  smooth,  and 
an  eyeglass  which,  since  it  never  kept  in  its  place,  made 
him  appear  restless  and  not  very  wise.  He  was  for  ever 
taking  it  off  and  putting  it  on  again ;  it  fitted  badly,  and, 
as  he  tried  to  screw  it  in  for  greater  safety,  it  made  a 
red  mark,  and  his  indeterminate  features,  soft  and  plastic, 
went  awry  and  out  of  drawing.  He  had  a  habit  of  saying 
things  without  any  apparent  meaning.  Lady  Sallust 
sometimes  thought  he  was  very  clever  and  very  deep, 
and  might  be  a  great  force;  whilst  at  other  times  she 
wavered,  and  doubted  if  he  were  completely  sane,  if  he 
were  "  all  there."  She  admitted  that,  although  she  had 
always  been  fond  of  him,  she  was  unable  to  understand 
him. 

Now  he  stood  before  the  glass  and  pretended  to  doubt 
whether  Manuella  Wagner  would  look  upon  him  favour- 
ably !  What  was  the  use  of  disregarding  first  principles  ? 
Wavering  as  to  his  complete  sanity,  Lady  Sallust  assured 
him  that  very  young  girls  were  not,  as  a  rule,  hard  to 
please,  they  fell  in  love  with  the  first  man  who  paid 
them  any  attention. 

"  And  if  you  are  backed  up  by  her  people,  other  men 
kept  at  a  distance  ..."  Then,  hesitating  at  something 
whimsical  or  laughing  in  his  eyes,  she  went  on  even 
more  firmly  to  impress  upon  him  the  desperate  nature 
of  his  affairs,  about  which  all  their  world  was  talking, 


CONCERT    PITCH  n 

and  this  easy  way  of  righting  them.  Finally,  when 
tea  was  brought  in,  and  he  was  feeding  Curio  with  sweet 
cake,  having  ceased  apparently  to  take  any  interest  in 
the  conversation,  she  took  it  for  granted  that  she  had 
secured  his  acquiescence  and  might  take  steps  towards 
accomplishing  her  design. 

He  did  not  really  care  what  she  thought  or  did.  She 
could  not  marry  him  against  his  will.  He  rallied  her 
that  she  occupied  herself  with  such  trivial  things  as  party 
politics  and  the  preservation  of  his  estates.  He  parried 
her  more  definite  questions,  paying  her  compliments  and 
persuading  her  anew  that  no  one  could  be  more  agree- 
able than  this  nephew  of  hers  when  he  was  in  the 
mood.  She  thought  no  girl  could  resist  him ;  certainly 
no  young  girl.  Already  she  saw  herself  carelessly  men- 
tioning Waldo's  quarterings,  comparing  them  with  the 
Duke's  more  recent  creation,  convincing  Lady  Wagner 
of  the  superiority  of  such  an  alliance.  Of  course  she 
would  call  it  "  an  alliance "  and  not  a  marriage ;  that 
would  suit  Lcetitia. 

"  Isn't  the  whole  idea  rather  French  ?  I  feel  like  Rip 
Van  Winkle.  I  have  come  back  to  a  world  I  don't 
understand.  Are  things  done  like  this  nowadays  ?  When 
we  read  '  A  marriage  has  been  arranged  .  .  . '  does  it 
really  mean  it  has  been  settled  without  the  intervention 
of  the  principals? " 

"  Loetitia  is  sure  to  be  able  to  influence  the  girl  when 
I  have  influenced  her,"  she  said  confidently.  "  You  will 
find  we  shall  make  everything  easy  for  you.  I  only 
wanted  to  know  that  you  would  fall  in  with  my  plan." 

He  laughed  again,  he  really  could  not  help  it;  she 
took  everything  for  granted  so  easily. 

"  You  will  admit,  even  from  the  little  you  saw  of  the 
mother  last  night,  that  she  is  not  the  sort  of  woman  a  girl 
would  like  to  live  with,  or  prefer  to  a  good  marriage  and 
a  position  of  her  own." 

"  I  admit,  dear  aunt,  I  most  freely  admit,  a  girl  might 
dare  anything  rather  than  live  with  that  charming  lady 
with  whom  you  sent  me  in  to  dinner.  But  ..." 


12  CONCERT    PITCH 

There  was,  however,  really  no  use  in  arguing;  the 
whole  thing  was  too  ridiculous. 

He  went  away  quite  soon,  leaving  Lady  Sallust  still 
under  the  erroneous  impression  that  he  had  assented  to 
what  she  proposed.  He  even  thanked  her  for  taking  so 
much  trouble. 

"  I  won't  commit  myself  until  I  have  seen  her ;  you 
must  not  commit  me.  I  am  a  little  slow.  You  carry  me 
away  by  your  goodness.  What  a  pity  aunts  are  within 
the  prohibited  degree.  ..." 

She  had  even  to  defend  herself  laughingly  against  him, 
and  to  tell  him  again  he  was  "  absurd." 

But  when  the  door  of  the  Grosvenor  Square  house  had 
closed  behind  him  and  he  was  in  the  street,  he  thought 
it  was  not  he,  but  she,  who  was  absurd,  and  so  was  all 
the  civilization  in  which  he  found  himself.  He  had  as 
little  intention  of  marrying  the  daughter  of  Sir  Hubert 
and  Lady  Wagner  as  he  had  of  trying  to  raise  the  Titanic, 
perhaps  less.  Whichever  way  he  might  find  out  of  his 
difficulties,  it  would  not  be  this  one.  He  had  hunted 
big  game,  known  the  hardships  of  exploration  and  its 
joys,  looked  for  and  found  adventure.  Blackwater  fever 
in  Nigeria,  and  several  forms  of  malaria  in  Nyassa  and 
Somaliland  had  been  among  his  experiences ;  he  had 
been  tended  by  women  of  all  nations.  His  constitu- 
tion and  his  morality  were  nevertheless  unimpaired;  he 
was  really  extraordinarily  sane  although  at  the  moment 
a  little  out  of  his  bearings.  For  he  was  not  without  the 
knowledge  that  it  was  a  great  name,  with  a  great  tradi- 
tion, to  which  he  had  succeeded,  not  without  a  certain 
pride  in  record  and  lineage.  If  he  was  not  yet  clear  as 
to  how  he  was  to  tackle  the  difficulties  of  his  position  and 
his  amazing  poverty,  he  never  doubted  his  capacity.  He 
wanted  no  girl's  hand  to  cut  the  Gordian  knot  for  him, 
he  would  find  his  own  way  out. 

So  he  thought  as  he  left  Grosvenor  Square  that  after- 
noon, never  dreaming  that  there  were  forces  with  which 
he  had  forgotten  to  reckon,  and  complications  that  no 
man  could  foresee.  He  sent  a  telegram  to  Lady  Sallust 


CONCERT    PITCH  13 

a  few  days  later.  He  told  her  it  was  unfortunately  im- 
possible for  him  "  to  make  an  inspection  of  the  auriferous 
property  "  she  recommended,  as  he  was  leaving  England. 
He  also  wrote  her  a  short  note: 

"  MY  DEAR  AUNT, 

"  I  have  been  thinking  over  all  you  said,  all  you 
so  wisely  said.  Alas!  my  affections  are  too  deeply 
engaged.  Sweet  seventeen  is  not  for  me,  who  find  my 
distraction  in  maturer  charms.  Pity  me,  love  me  a  little 
if  you  can,  but  don't,  I  implore  you,  don't  try  and  set 
me  hunting  hares.  Lady  Wagner's  daughter  is  fore- 
doomed to  be  a  Duchess,  I  feel  it.  It  is  Calingford  must 
satisfy  those  inquisitorial  cold  eyes.  I  should  run  away 
on  the  eve  of  my  wedding.  I  am  running  away  now, 
you  are  driving  me  from  London.  I  believe  I  am  fright- 
ened of  the  fate  you  suggest  for  me. 

"  Your  enamoured  nephew, 

"  WALDO." 

Yet  once  or  twice  after  he  had  written  his  letter  he 
caught  himself  wondering  if  any  girl  could  be  found  to 
accept  Calingford — any  young  girl.  He  was  thinking 
about  Calingford  whilst  his  aunt  was  talking.  They 
had  been  at  Eton  together.  Unless  Calingford  had  al- 
tered very  considerably,  he  pitied  any  woman  who  might 
associate  herself  with  him.  He  did  not  know  Sir  Hubert 
Wagner's  daughter,  but  he  was  even  uncomfortable,  and 
had  a  strange  quixotic  irrational  moment  of  remorse 
at  having  refused  to  marry  her  himself  when  he 
thought  she  might  be  thrown  at  Calingford's  head — and 
heart — and  never  know  what  a  head  it  was,  and  what  a 
heart. 

A  very  curious  fellow  this  Lord  Lyssons,  hardly  fit  to 
take  his  place  amongst  ordinary  men  and  women. 


CHAPTER  II 

LORD  LYSSONS,   in  order  to  give  at  least  some 
colour  to  his  letter  to  his  aunt,  actually  went  to 
Paris.     He  did  not  know  that  the  first  Court  was  six 
weeks  distant,  and  he  had  forgotten  that  the  bride  in- 
tended for  him  was  still  at  school. 

Manuella  Wagner  had  been  a  very  troublesome  child, 
and  all  her  stepmother's  early  experience  in  dealing  with 
refractory  children  proved  of  little  use  with  her  step- 
daughter. There  were  constant  collisions,  and  there  is 
no  doubt  the  girl  left  a  bad  impression  on  Lady  Wagner's 
mind.  She  had  been  banished  to  foreign  schools  for  some 
seven  or  eight  years  now,  and  the  impression  had  had  time 
to  fade.  The  moment  had  arrived,  too,  when  she  was 
needed  to  take  her  part  in  the  family  scheme  of  great- 
ness. Lady  Wagner  often  talked  of  her  duty,  and  per- 
haps did  it  according  to  her  lights.  She  meant  to  do 
her  duty  by  Manuella,  and  hoped  that  the  girl,  now  she 
was  grown  up  and  able  to  think  logically,  would  be  easier 
to  manage.  Lady  Wagner  thought,  too,  that  now  she 
could  deal  with  her  better.  Her  amazing  belief  in  herself 
gained  fresh  strength  with  every  emblazoned  carriage  or 
motor  that  pulled  up  at  Stone  House.  Manuella  would 
show  gratitude  for  the  settlement  her  father  was  pre- 
pared to  make  on  her  and  the  kindness  Loetitia  was 
prepared  to  show  her  by  falling  in  with  their  plans,  and 
doing  her  share  in  establishing  the  permanence  of  the 


CONCERT    PITCH  15 

family  position.  Loetitia  did  not  doubt  that  the  most 
refractory  head  would  bend  to  strawberry  leaves.  A 
certain  amount  of  coaching  and  clothing-  would,  of  course, 
be  necessary  before  the  girl  could  be  introduced.  But 
there  were  six  weeks  for  preparation. 

Lord  Lyssons  remained  a  month  in  Paris  in  order  to 
avoid  argument  with  his  aunt  and  the  attentions  of 
Somerset  House.  As  it  happened,  he  returned  upon  the 
same  day  as  Manuella,  and  in  the  same  train.  In  fact 
he  had  avoided  nothing,  as  the  event  proved,  but  a  very 
foggy  February  in  London. 

He  had  not  forgotten  Lady  Sallust's  importunity. 
Several  times  he  thought  what  an  extraordinary  idea 
it  had  been,  and  wondered  about  the  girl  and  Calingford, 
and  whether  she  had  accepted  him.  He  had  been  out  of 
England  so  many  years  that  times  and  seasons  meant 
little  to  him.  He  never  pictured  Manuella  still  at  the 
finishing  school,  and  Lcetitia  putting  off  sending  for  her 
till  the  last  minute,  nor  dreamed  that  he  was  running 
back,  not  only  into,  but  with,  the  very  danger  from  which 
he  had  fled! 

There  had  been  no  talk  of  any  Wagner  issue  but  the 
proffered  bride.  Lord  Lyssons  was  unconscious  of  the 
very  existence  of  the  brother,  Albert  Edward  Wagner. 
But  all  the  way  from  Paris  to  Calais  he  was  amused  by 
the  conversation  between  a  boy  and  girl  who  occupied  the 
same  carriage  and  talked  with  complete  unrestraint,  under 
the  impression  evidently  that  the  tall  man  in  the  corner 
was  some  sort  of  a  foreigner,  who  did  not  understand 
their  language. 

Manuella  was  finishing  her  education  at  Fontainebleau 
when  Albert  unexpectedly  came  to  fetch  her.  Loetitia 
considered  neither  the  girl's  feelings  nor  those  of  the 
Principal  of  the  school.  She  may  have  always  intended 
that  the  girl  should  come  back  before  she  was  eighteen, 
but  she  had  given  no  such  indication.  Manuella  looked 
forward  to  at  least  six  months  more  freedom.  Com- 
pared with  Lcetitia's  rule,  her  school  life  had  been 
freedom.  Now  here  was  Albert  with  the  peremptory 


1 6  CONCERT    PITCH 

order.  It  could  hardly  be  called  a  summons  home,  for 
there  was  not  enough  warmth  in  Lady  Wagner  to  kindle 
a  hearth  or  make  an  atmosphere  of  homeliness.  She 
was  a  stranger  to  her  stepdaughter,  but  one  around  whom 
no  romance  lingered.  "  Mother  "  was  a  word  in  Man- 
uella's  vocabulary  that  implied  a  cold  eye,  pinched  thin 
lips,  and  implacable  tyranny.  It  snubbed  and  denied. 
Lcetitia's  "  pleasing  manner,"  Lady  Wagner's  "  social 
charm  "  were  not  exhibited  in  the  nursery  or  schoolroom. 
"  Children  must  be  seen  and  not  heard  "  was  a  phrase 
that  embodied  her,  echoing  in  the  child's  ears  from  the 
early  South  African  days;  repeated  on  the  steamer,  in 
chilly  foreign  hotels,  at  the  big  house  in  Kensington 
from  which  the  child  had  gone  to  her  years  in  foreign 
schools.  All  she  knew  of  care  or  tenderness  was  epito- 
mized in  it.  Such  newer  associations  as  she  had  with  her 
stepmother  were  letters  that  forbade  this  or  that ;  "  pi  " 
letters  that  preached  and  dogmatized,  letters  which  had 
been  a  duty  to  write,  and  were  a  yet  more  distasteful 
duty  to  answer. 

Lord  Lyssons,  listening  in  his  corner  of  the  railway 
carriage,  heard  all  about  it,  although  he  did  not  know 
who  were  the  young  people  talking.  The  boy  was  a 
typical  English  undergraduate,  knowing  no  word  of  the 
language  of  the  country  in  which  he  was  traveling;  he 
shouted  at  the  guards  and  grumbled  at  their  stupidity 
in  not  speaking  English;  a  foolish  youngster  whose  in- 
sularity was  his  only  excuse. 

"  Can't  you  tell  that  infernal  fool  that  I  want  my 
handbag  in  here.  I've  shouted  at  him  till  I'm  hoarse." 

The  girl  spoke  good  French,  but  she  seemed  almost 
as  cross  as  her  brother.  They  took  some  time  settling 
themselves.  The  train  was  fairly  started  before  all  the 
bags  and  handbags,  hat-boxes  and  papers  gathered  about 
them  were  properly  stowed  away.  Then  the  intimate 
talk  began.  The  girl  was  ill-dressed  for  travelling,  wear- 
ing a  red-striped  flannel  blouse  with  a  turn-down  collar, 
a  blue  serge  skirt,  and  a  burnt-straw  hat.  But  the 
costume  suited  her,  and  there  was  no  doubt  of  her  beauty. 


CONCERT   PITCH  17 

It  was  of  a  foreign  type,  the  general  impression  Lord 
Lyssons  got  was  of  ivory  skin,  a  thin  carmine  mouth, 
mutinous  and  mobile,  resentful  dark  eyes,  thickly  fringed, 
and  a  petulant  rich  voice,  with  strange  low,  passionate 
notes.  Most  of  the  time  she  talked  she  was  in  such  a 
palpable  rage,  so  bad-tempered,  that  Waldo  was  amused. 
She  looked  like  a  child  in  her  short  skirts,  although  the 
blouse  hinted  that  she  was  a  well-developed  one. 

"  I  know  she  only  sent  for  me  because  she  knew  I 
wanted  to  stay  where  I  was,"  she  began,  when  her  brother 
had  at  last  made  himself  comfortable  and  given  her  a 
chance  of  speaking  of  anything  but  the  peccadilloes  of 
the  guard  and  porters. 

"  I'm  not  going  to  ask  that  Johnny  in  the  corner  if 
he  minds  smoke.  If  he  says  anything  to  me  I  shall  pre- 
tend not  to  understand." 

"  Only  it  won't  be  pretence,"  she  put  in  hastily.  Then 
she  smiled,  she  had  not  meant  to  be  nasty  to  Albert ;  it 
was  not  his  fault  that  he  was  here.  When  she  smiled 
Waldo  was  confirmed  in  his  impression  that  she  was  very 
beautiful.  But  the  smile  was  only  momentary,  her  sense 
of  injury  was  uppermost. 

"  What  does  she  want  me  home  for  ?  I  was  getting 
on  with  everybody.  It  was  the  j oiliest  place  I've  ever 
been  in.  I  wanted  to  stay." 

"  You've  been  saying  nothing  else  ever  since  I  came 
over.  What's  the  good  of  arguing?  You  had  to  come; 
there  is  no  good  fighting  her.  Haven't  we  tried  it  often 
enough?  She's  got  the  Governor  on  a  string." 

They  had  tried,  over  and  over  again,  in  tempestuous 
childhood,  and  always  been  worsted.  Their  father  never 
interfered  on  their  behalf,  and  Loetitia  had  quite  a  col- 
lection of  spirit-breaking  punishments  always  on  hand. 
She  had  succeeded  with  Albert,  but  Manuella  persistently 
defied  her.  That  was  why,  when  Albert  went  to  Eton, 
Manuella  was  banished  to  Germany. 

"  They  did  without  me  well  enough  when  I  was  miser- 
able in  that  squabbling  Dusseldorf  family,  and  in  that 
beastly  convent  in  Brussels.  I  believe  it's  only  because 


1 8  CONCERT   PITCH 

I  wrote  that  I  loved  Fontainebleau  she  is  taking  me  away 
from  it." 

"  I  say,  draw  it  a  bit  milder.  Steppie  has  her  points. 
She  has  done  a  lot  for  us  all." 

"  She  has  done  nothing  for  me !  "  The  answer  was 
quite  vicious.  "  Thank  Heaven  I  have  only  seen  her  five 
times  in  seven  years,  and  then  it  was  only  because  they 
were  somewhere  near  and  would  have  felt  ashamed  not 
to  pay  me  a  visit." 

"  I  say,  if  you're  coming  home  in  that  spirit  there  will 
be  ructions.  Can't  you  manage  to  simmer  down  a  bit? 
Anyway,  you  are  past  bread-and-water  days  and  being 
locked  up.  I  should  make  up  my  mind  to  play  the  ami- 
able if  I  were  you,  it  pays  ever  so  much  better." 

"  Oh,  yes,"  she  said  contemptuously,  "  of  course  you 
would." 

Albert  had  always  truckled.  But  then  she  remembered 
she  was  very  fond  of  Albert.  He  was  all  she  had  ever 
had  to  care  for,  and,  although  he  had  played  her  false  so 
many  times,  disappointed  her,  and  given  in  to  authority, 
she  felt  her  heart  warming  to  him. 

"  Are  you  going  to  be  at  home  ?  " 

"  Not  when  I  can  help  it,  but  I'll  give  you  a  start.  I 
can  generally  get  down  for  a  few  days  if  there's  anything 
going  on." 

"  She  will  come  in  when  we  want  to  talk,  and  interfere 
with  everything,  just  like  she  used." 

"  You're  as  bad-tempered  as  ever,  I  do  believe." 

"  I  wasn't  bad-tempered  at  Fontainebleau,  nor  at 
Dresden.  It's  the  thought  of  going  back  that  puts  me 
into  such  a  rage.  You  oughtn't  to  find  fault  with  me. 
You  hated  it  all  as  much  as  I  did.  We  were  never 
allowed  to  do  anything  we  wanted." 

"  Everything  is  altered.  I'm  sure  you'll  get  on  better 
with  them  now.  They're  big  pots,  you  know.  The 
Governor  is  going  to  get  a  peerage.  He  stood  for  every 
sort  of  place  that  never  returns  a  Conservative  before 
he  got  in  for  North  Leven.  We've  got  to  be  in  the 
show;  don't  make  a  fuss,  there's  a  good  girl.  We'll 


CONCERT   PITCH  19 

have  some  fun  together,  just  you  and  I,  like  old  times. 
I've  been  beastly  dull  without  you.  I  didn't  tell  you  in 
my  letters.  I  hated  Eton,  never  got  on  there,  got  into 
no  end  of  rows.  I'm  sick  to  death  of  Oxford,  though 
of  course  it's  better  than  Eton.  The  Governor  means 
well,  you  know,  if  he  wasn't  so  under  her  thumb.  I  get 
quite  a  decent  allowance.  She  likes  me  to  bring  men 
home,  or  to  Gairoch.  I  hate  doing  it,  because  she  ques- 
tions me  about  their  fathers  and  mothers,  and  chips  me 
about  my  low  tastes  if  they  ain't  swells.  You've  got  to 
be  presented.  I  think  there's  an  idea  of  marrying  you 
out  of  hand." 

"  I'd  like  to  see  them  doing  it." 

"  Well,  I  heard  the  Mater  say  something  about  it,  and 
that  she  hoped  you  had  altered.  I  think  you're  on  the 
good-looking  side  now,  whatever  you  were  as  a  kid.  But 
of  course  you  want  decent  clothes ;  in  that  get-up  you 
look  as  if  you  ought  to  have  a  hurdy-gurdy  ..." 

She  was  impatient  of  his  criticism  and  indifferent  as  to 
her  appearance,  a  crude  young  creature,  all  dark  eyes  and 
resentment.  There  was  something  wild  and  untamed 
about  her  that  appealed  to  the  listener  in  the  corner.  She 
was  being  led  back  into  captivity,  evidently  that  was 
what  she  felt.  It  was  strange  that  her  identity  never 
struck  him. 

"  Oh !  don't  bother  about  my  looks.  I  don't  want  to 
come  out,  or  to  be  married,  or  any  of  these  things." 

"What  do  you  want  to  do?  You  can't  stay  at  school 
for  ever.  I  wonder  you're  not  sick  of  it." 

She  hesitated  to  tell  him  what  she  wanted  to  do, 
although  hesitation  seemed  no  part  of  her.  It  set  Waldo 
wondering;  he  listened  for  what  she  would  say  next. 
He  had  a  book,  a  yellow-covered  novel  by  Willy,  but  he 
was  really  only  listening.  Manuella's  hesitation  lasted 
quite  a  long  time.  Albert  had  always  been  leaky,  and 
she  was  not  quite  sure  of  herself,  nor  of  her  power.  She 
could  not  bear  criticism,  and  ridicule  was  unthinkable. 
She  knew  what  she  wanted  to  do,  but  she  did  not  know 
if  she  were  capable  of  doing  it.  In  six  months  more 


20  CONCERT    PITCH 

she  would  have  known,  if  the  beastly  summons  had  not 
come.  She  was  in  utter  rebellion. 

There  was  no  use  telling  Albert  that  she  wanted  to  be 
an  operatic  singer.  Monsieur  Lausan  had  said  her  voice 
was  unique,  that  it  had  only  to  gain  power,  and  she  had 
only  to  acquire  dramatic  capacity,  expression.  .  .  . 
What  was  the  use  of  telling  Albert?  He  might 
laugh. 

Albert  did  not  press  the  question  as  to  what  she  did 
want,  and  why  she  resented  so  bitterly  having  to  come 
home  and  be  presented  and  do  all  the  things  other  girls 
did.  He  had  a  great  deal  to  say  about  himself,  about  his 
popularity,  and  the  jolly  fellows  he  knew  but  was  not 
allowed  to  take  home  because  their  people  didn't  amount 
to  anything.  He  spoke  of  cousins  who  had  been  dropped, 
and  there  were  exclamations  from  the  girl  of  dismay  and 
more  defiance. 

"  I  shall  go  and  see  Susie  Briarley,  whatever  happens. 
I  don't  care  how  grand  we  are  supposed  to  be.  I'm  not 
grand;  I'm  not  going  to  be  a  snob.  I  liked  all  the 
Briarleys." 

She  said  this,  and  he  told  her  she  would  have  to  look 
out  for  herself;  he  wasn't  going  to  run  counter  to  his 
stepmother,  who  really  held  the  purse-strings  and  every- 
thing else.  He  didn't  mind  what  he  did  on  the  quiet,  but 
he  hated  a  fuss.  He  did  not  press  her  as  to  what  were 
her  own  desires  and  ambitions,  and  only  Waldo  was  in- 
terested. Why  did  she  not  want  to  come  out  or  to  be 
married?  But  of  course  she  was  too  young  to  know 
her  own  mind.  Still,  he  wondered  what  wild  idea  she 
harboured. 

He  saw  her  again  on  the  boat.  Albert  showed  early 
signs  of  sea-sickness  and  disappeared  into  a  cabin. 
Manuella  stayed  on  the  deck,  leaning  over  the  taffrail, 
watching  the  slow  retreat  of  the  shore,  then,  when  it  was 
out  of  sight,  the  waves  that  broke  against  the  side  of  the 
boat.  The  sky  was  lowering  and  the  waves  high,  crested 
with  foam.  She  watched  them,  and  Lord  Lyssons 
watched  her.  The  mutiny  and  the  rebellion  went  out  of 


CONCERT    PITCH  21 

her  face  now  that  she  was  alone.  Waldo  thought  there 
was  something  wistful  in  it.  She  took  her  hat  off  when 
the  wind  tore  at  it,  swinging  it  freely  in  her  hand,  whilst 
her  hair  was  blown  this  way  and  that.  She  was  really 
only  a  child ;  either  her  skirts  were  short,  or  she  had  out- 
grown them.  The  wind  blew  away  the  wistfulness  and 
melancholy,  light  came  into  her  eyes  and  colour  into  her 
cheeks,  the  mouth  relaxing  into  the  softest  of  smiling 
curves. 

As  he  was  standing  near  her  he  spoke : 

"  You  are  enjoying  the  storm  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Rather ! " 

She  did  not  resent  being  spoken  to ;  it  was  obvious 
that  it  did  not  appear  anything  out  of  the  way  to  her, 
that  he  had  no  young-ladyish  scruples  to  overcome. 
"  I  wish  it  was  rougher.  I  would  love  to  see  the  waves 
come  over  the  deck.  They  look  as  if  they  are  going 
to,  don't  they  ?  How  they  break !  What  a  noise !  " 
They  could  hardly  hear  themselves  speaking. 

"  It  doesn't  make  you  ill  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no !  It  makes  me  feel  awfully  well — the  salt 
of  it,  the  tang.  When  I  lean  over  it  comes  up  into  my 
face." 

She  leant  over  again  as  she  spoke,  and  he  could  see 
that  the  spray  of  the  waves,  as  they  broke  against  the 
side  of  the  boat,  did  really  wet  her  cheeks.  She  rubbed 
them  to  show  him,  and  her  ungloved  hands  were  wet. 
Her  cheeks  flushed  with  the  pleasure  and  excitement  of 
the  storm ;  now  they  were  as  a  rose,  and  the  dark  eyes 
aglow  under  the  thick  tangled  lashes.  He  cannot  be  said 
to  have  entered  into  conversation  with  her,  for,  as  her 
stepmother  said  quite  truly,  Manuella  never  had  the  art 
of  conversation;  but  he  went  on  shouting  to  her  and 
she  to  him.  There  was  not  a  trace  of  embarrassment 
about  her,  or  missishness. 

"  I  love  water — rivers,  sea,  falls.  Do  you  know  the 
Falls  in  Rhodesia?  People  say  they  are  better  than 
Niagara.  I  went  there  when  I  was  ten  years  old.  We 
camped  out.  Such  skies  and  sunrises,  and  then  the 


22  CONCERT    PITCH 

Falls !  I  don't  wonder  Rhodes  wanted  to  be  near  them, 
do  you  ?  " 

He  did  not  correct  her  topography.  It  was  really  a 
storm,  and  now  the  sea-spray  jewelled  her  dark  hair, 
and  between  the  wind  and  sea  they  shouted  at  each  other. 

"  You  come  from  South  Africa  ?  "  he  asked  her,  when 
there  was  a  lull. 

"  Ever  so  long  ago.  Since  then  I've  never  seen  a  real 
sea.  It  was  an  awfully  stormy  time  when  we  came  over. 
Mother  and  Albert  were  sick  all  the  time,  and  I  ran  wild 
about  the  deck.  I  loved  every  moment  of  it." 

Then  she  was  silent ;  he  even  thought  she  sighed  im- 
patiently, as  if  the  end  of  the  running  wild  had  been  the 
end  of  her  happy  time.  When  he  could  make  himself 
heard,  he  told  her  of  the  seas  he  had  traversed — equi- 
noxes, great  gales  in  Southern  seas.  He  caught  her  inter- 
est, and  when  he  suggested  they  should  get  into  shelter, 
for  now  the  rain  was  pouring  down  and  the  sea  a  little 
abating,  she  made  no  demur  but  followed  him  to  hear 
more.  He  found  two  seats  on  the  lower  deck,  and  she 
let  him  tuck  a  rug  about  her,  surprised  at  the  attention, 
however,  saying  she  didn't  want  it,  but  afterwards  playing 
Desdemona  to  his  Othello,  listening  to  the  stories  of 
adventure  he  fitted  for  her  ears.  It  was  there  Albert 
found  them,  some  minutes  after  they  were  in  harbour. 
Albert  was  very  pale,  and  said  he  had  had  an  awful  time. 
He  looked  curiously  at  her  companion,  but  waited  until 
he  had  left  them  before  making  any  comment. 

"  So,  after  all,  the  Johnny  was  English,"  he  said  then. 
"  We  weren't  very  careful  what  we  said  before  him.  But 
I  don't  suppose  it  matters ;  I  don't  suppose  he  is  in  our 
set.  Touch  of  '  reach  me  down  '  about  his  clothes,  wasn't 
there?  I  say,  you'll  have  to  give  up  that  sort  of  thing, 
sitting  about  talking  to  men  you  haven't  been  introduced 
to.  You're  somebody  now.  I  suppose  I  ought  to  have 
trotted  after  you.  But  oh !  God !  I  was  bad !  What 
did  he  talk  to  you  about?  If  you  meet  him  again  any- 
where you  mustn't  bow,  you  must  pretend  not  to  know 
him." 


CONCERT   PITCH  23 

Manuella  said  they  had  talked  about  travelling,  she 
had  found  him  awfully  interesting,  she  should  do  what 
she  chose  and  bow  to  him  whenever  she  met  him. 

"  Talked  about  travelling,  did  he  ?  I  thought  he 
looked  like  a  bagman,"  Albert  answered,  and  there  let 
the  matter  drop.  Steppie  would  soon  teach  her,  he 
thought;  lie  need  not  jaw  at  her. 

But  in  the  bustle  of  finding  their  luggage,  getting  off 
the  ship,  and  that  sharp  little  exchange  of  talk  with 
Albert,  she  forgot  even  to  say  good-bye  to  him.  Lord 
Lyssons  had  not  obtruded  himself  nor  offered  any  serv- 
ices. He  read  her  brother's  disapproving  and  critical 
eyes,  and  agreed  he  was  right  to  disapprove.  The  girl 
was  too  ingenuous,  unsophisticated — certainly  too  beau- 
tiful to  talk  to  every  casual  acquaintance.  By  his  very 
inclination  to  ask  her  name,  his  wish  to  see  her  again, 
he  knew  Albert  was  in  the  right.  He  laughed  about  it 
to  himself  when  he  was  in  the  train,  thinking  of  the 
undergraduate's  lofty  expression.  But  he  did  not  laugh 
when  he  thought  about  the  girl.  He  wondered  to  what 
sort  of  home  she  was  going  so  reluctantly,  what  fate 
was  in  store  for  her.  How  she  had  listened  to  his  stories, 
how  gloriously  her  eyes  had  lit  up ! 

He  never  guessed,  never  came  within  a  hundred  miles 
of  guessing,  that  this  was  the  bride  who  had  been  offered 
to  him.  By  the  time  he  met  her  again  he  had  almost 
forgotten  her — almost,  not  quite ! 

Albert  got  better  on  the  way  to  London  and  told 
Manuella  more  about  Stone  House.  But  even  then  she 
was  hardly  prepared  for  the  magnificence  in  store  for  her. 
A  motor  met  them  at  the  station ;  in  ten  minutes  it  rolled 
between  the  iron  gates,  and  Albert  said: 

"Here  we  are!  What  do  you  think  of  this?"  as  if 
she  would  be  awed.  A  pompous  butler  swung  open  the 
massive  door,  and  there  were  two  powdered  footmen  to 
support  him.  Albert  asked  almost  as  pompously  as  the 
butler  replied : 

"  Where  is  Lady  Wagner  ?  Is  Lady  Wagner  or  Sir 
Hubert  in?" 


24  CONCERT    PITCH 

A  gentleman  at  the  head  of  the  lapis  lazuli  stairs, 
who,  Manuella  afterwards  understood,  was  the  major 
domo,  came  forward,  and  whilst  informing  them  that 
neither  Sir  Hubert  nor  Lady  Wagner  was  at  home  at 
the  moment,  undertook  that  "  her  ladyship  should  be 
informed  of  their  arrival  when  she  returned."  It  was  all 
very  chill  and  very  formal,  and  already  Manuella  felt 
Lady  Wagner's  personality  in  the  background.  If  it 
had  only  come  six  months  later;  then  she  would  have 
known  where  she  stood,  whether  her  voice  would  give  her 
independence,  freedom !  Her  heart  panted  for  freedom ; 
all  of  it  that  had  not  been  crushed  or  cramped  by  Lceti- 
tia's  early  training.  Here,  almost  in  the  first  moments  of 
her  home-coming,  in  that  great  cold  hall,  with  its  pillars 
and  staircase,  blue  marble  and  shadow,  freedom  seemed 
to  have  receded,  her  voice  to  be  a  feeble  and  stifled  thing, 
her  high  hopes  but  childish  dreams.  The  shadow  of  the 
great  hall  was  all  at  once  upon  her  spirit  and  upon  her 
voice. 

Albert  guessed  something  of  what  she  was  feeling. 

"  Come  along.  You'll  see  them  both  at  dinner,  don't 
bother.  I'll  show  you  your  rooms." 

Her  rooms  were  high  up,  but  a  lift  took  her  to  them. 
They  were  large,  luxurious ;  the  upholsterer  had  known 
what  was  due  to  the  only  daughter  of  the  house.  There 
was  a  bedroom  hung  with  pink  brocade,  a  sitting-room 
with  walls  panelled  with  mauve  silk,  a  large  bathroom 
with  green  marble  walls.  Albert  played  showman  with 
obvious  pride.  Certainly  their  magnificence  had  im- 
pressed him. 

"  They've  got  you  a  maid,"  he  said,  "  a  French  woman, 
who  was  with  the  Duchess  of  Southfields.  You'll  soon 
get  used  to  it  all,"  he  added  patronizingly,  for  he  misread 
her  dismayed  look.  "  I  knew  it  would  rather  floor  you 
at  first.  We  really  are  big  bugs." 

It  was  the  French  maid  and  not  the  magnificence, 
that  brought  the  dismayed  look  to  Manuella's  expressive 
face.  The  woman  stood  there  already,  silent  and  respect- 
ful, between  herself  and  Albert,  between  herself  and  the 


CONCERT   PITCH  25 

angry  tears  that  for  no  reason  were  so  near  her  eyes. 
Albert  left  them  almost  at  once,  saying  she  had  better 
"  put  herself  to  rights  "  before  Lady  Wagner  saw  her. 

"I  want  a  hot  bath  and  an  hour's  rest  before  dinner. 
That  time  on  the  boat  knocked  me  over ;  I'm  all  to  pieces 
still.  You  will  be  all  right,  won't  you  ?  " 

Albert  was  the  one  thing  human  to  which  she  had  to 
cling,  she  had  almost  clung  to  him,  implored  him  not 
to  leave  her,  made  a  scene,  but  the  maid  was  there  and 
Albert  in  a  hurry  to  be  off.  So  she  only  answered  in  a 
stifled  voice : 

"  Don't  bother  about  me ;  of  course  I  am  all  right." 
There  was  some  note  in  her  voice  made  him  hesitate  and 
come  back  into  the  room. 

"  Oh !  go  on,"  she  said  impatiently.  "  I've  got  to 
unpack.  What  are  you  staring  at  me  for  ?  " 

He  gave  her  a  hurried  hug ;  he  was  really  fond  of  her, 
although  she  was  always  so  difficult. 

"  Don't  get  the  hump.     Keep  bucked !  " 

She  returned  the  hug  a  little  wildly,  then  pushed  him 
away. 

"  Go  and  get  your  bath  and  rest.  You  look  awfully 
pale  still,  what  a  duffer  you  are  to  be  sea-sick !  Perhaps 
I'll  lie  down  too." 

But  she  did  not  give  herself  any  time  to  rest.  In  her 
hurried,  impulsive  way  she  began  at  once  to  unpack. 
She  ignored  the  new  French  maid,  who  offered  help,  hot 
water,  comment,  exclaimed  at  her  limited  school  ward- 
robe. She  tried  to  make  up  her  mind  in  that  first  hour 
of  her  home-coming  to  do  as  Albert  said,  to  submit 
to  circumstances,  not  to  set  herself  against  her  step- 
mother, to  make  the  best  of  things;  it  was  her  spirit 
and  not  herself  that  rebelled. 

Already  her  resolution  weakened  when,  dressed  in  her 
best  clothes  by  the  concerned  and  exclamatory  French 
maid — a  white  dress,  with  skirt  too  short  and  bodice 
too  tight — she  waited  in  the  enormous  drawing-room  all 
alone  for  the  best  part  of  an  hour.  Lady  Wagner  had 
returned  from  her  afternoon  drive,  and  was  now  dressing 


26  CONCERT   PITCH 

for  dinner,  so  she  heard  indifferently,  or  indignantly,  in 
her  changing  moods. 

Loetitia's  sense  of  duty  brought  her  to  the  drawing- 
room  ten  minutes  before  dinner  was  served  to  welcome 
her  stepdaughter.  The  chilly  kiss  and  condescending  kind- 
ness, the  implication  in  her  little  set  speech  that,  although 
there  had  been  much  to  forgive  in  the  past,  she  had  hopes 
the  future  would  compensate  for  it,  brought  to  Manuella 
a  flush  of  indignation.  It  was  she  who  had  to  forgive, 
she  thought.  But  before  she  had  time  to  harm  herself 
by  hasty  speech  Albert  came  in  and  took  the  edge  off  the 
situation. 

Manuella  was  struck  by  the  comparative  friendliness 
between  Albert  and  his  stepmother;  it  was  as  if  he  had 
gone  over  to  the  enemy,  and  it  made  her  feel  her  own 
isolation  more  acutely,  although  really  he  was  indirectly 
asking  kindness  for  her  and  Lcetitia,  in  a  cold  and  dig- 
nified way,  was  promising  it. 

"  She  is  improved,  isn't  she  ?  The  Mater  thought  you 
were  going  to  be  short  and  stumpy.  She  is  on  the  good- 
looking  side,  Mater,  isn't  she  ?  Going  to  do  us  credit  ?  " 

"  I  am  sure  Manuella  has  come  home  with  that  inten- 
tion." 

Manuella  had  come  home  with  no  intention  at  all ;  she 
had  come  in  revolt,  and  because  no  choice  had  been  given 
her. 

"  She  has  grown  so  tall.  When  she  has  fined  down  a 
bit,  she'll  have  quite  a  figure." 

"  She  must  learn  to  hold  herself  better." 

"  You  do  stoop,  you  know,  Mimi." 

"  And  to  do  her  hair  more  tidily." 

"  i  expect  the  sea  blew  it  about  a  good  deal.  We  had 
a  most  awful  crossing." 

He  spoke  of  his  experiences  as  if  sure  of  her  sym- 
pathy. A  grown-up  deferential  stepson  was  more  to 
Lcetitia's  taste  than  had  seemed  possible  in  the  past,  when 
he  was  under  his  sister's  influence.  She  was  as  kind  to 
Albert  as  her  nature  permitted.  Sir  Hubert,  too,  when  he 
came  in,  listened  with  interest  to  Albert's  accounts  of  his 


CONCERT    PITCH  27 

sea-sickness.  It  was  evident  that  he,  Albert,  had  his  posi- 
tion here.  Manuella  was  the  outsider ;  she  felt  it  already. 
Her  father's  indifference  hurt  her,  although  he,  too, 
meant  to  be  kind,  and  said  pleasantly  that  she  had  grown 
out  of  knowledge.  They  were  half-way  through  dinner 
before  he  spoke  to  her  again.  For,  unfortunately,  he  was 
given  Perrier  water  instead  of  Evian,  and  it  was  as  if  a 
crime  had  been  committed  in  the  house. 

"  I  keep  twenty-three  servants,  and  can't  have  a  glass 
of  water  at  my  own  table.  ..." 

There  was  some  trouble  later  about  a  custard  pudding. 
Sir  Hubert  lived  on  a  diet  that  seemed  to  be  unsatisfying 
and  to  irritate  him  very  much.  When  he  did  remember 
Manuella  again,  he  said  she  had  grown  very  like  her 
mother,  who  "  was  the  most  beautiful  girl  in  Cuba,  and 
that  is  saying  a  great  deal,  I  can  tell  you." 

Loetitia  was  annoyed  at  his  referring  to  the  days  before 
he  had  gone  to  South  Africa.  She  wished  him  to  forget 
that  he  once  planted  tobacco.  He  annoyed  her  again 
when  he  went  on  speaking;  she  intended  to  be  sure 
that  the  girl  would  meet  her  in  the  right  spirit  before 
she  was  made  independent. 

"  You  come  to  me  in  the  morning,  and  I'll  see  about 
giving  you  something  for  pocket-money.  I  hope  you're 
not  as  extravagant  as  your  brother.  ..." 

But  it  was  obvious  he  was  satisfied  with,  if  not  proud 
of,  Albert's  extravagance.  Then  he  had  capsules  to  take, 
and  some  powders  in  a  wineglass  of  water.  He  was 
really  a  very  miserable  millionaire,  who  suffered  from  a 
stomach  that  was  as  distended  as  his  bank  balance;  he 
could  not  break  himself  of  the  impulse  to  go  on  piling 
into  both,  and  it  was  this  habit  that  obliterated  all  his 
other  qualities  and  characteristics.  Already  Manuella 
knew  she  could  expect  nothing  from  him  but  pocket- 
money,  and  that  her  stepmother  ruled  the  household. 

Sir  Hubert  said  again  that  she  had  grown  very  like  her 
mother — Spanish-looking,  and  would  suit  a  mantilla. 
Manuella  was  not  even  pleased  by  his  praise.  She  was 
born  in  South  Africa  of  an  English  father  and  had  grown 


28  CONCERT    PITCH 

fiercely  patriotic  in  her  foreign  schools.  There  was  really 
nothing  of  the  Spaniard  about  her  but  her  glorious  eyes, 
and  perhaps  her  development;  she  was  anything  but 
languorous,  and  wore  her  absurd  school-girl  clothes  like  a 
Parisienne.  Loetitia  owned  herself  distressed  at  Man- 
uella's  tendency  to  embonpoint,  but  Albert  said  reassur- 
ingly that  it  was  only  "  puppy  fat."  Manuella  hated  and 
resented  the  way  they  were  discussing  her,  but  found 
herself  without  courage  or  opportunity  to  tell  them  so. 
And  it  was  well  she  kept  silent,  or  Lady  Wagner,  too, 
might  have  become  less  reticent.  As  it  was,  she  was  criti- 
cal, and  not  at  all  sure  that  the  great  scheme  she  had  for 
her  stepdaughter  would  materialize.  Loetitia  found  Man- 
uella's  freedom  of  movement  unladylike,  her  short  an- 
swers gauche,  her  slanginess  to  Albert  vulgar.  Her  wild 
hair  was  certainly  "  deplorable,"  and  so  were  her  unmani- 
cured  hands.  And,  of  course,  Manuella  felt  the  unspoken 
disapproval;  soon  it  was  like  a  cold  fog  about  her. 

Lady  Wagner  herself  was  scrupulously  tidy,  not  a  hair 
of  her  grey  transformation  was  ever  out  of  its  place; 
her  speech  was  precise,  she  held  herself  upright.  Man- 
uella was  tired  from  her  journey.  After  dinner,  in  the 
drawing-room  again,  alone  with  Loetitia,  she  sat  in  an 
arm-chair  loosely,  feeling  dispirited.  Lord  Lyssons  had 
seen  her  in  the  wind  and  rain,  but  when  she  was  unhappy, 
and  certainly  there  was  a  burden  upon  her  to-night,  he 
would  have  found  it  difficult  to  recognize  her.  Her  col- 
our turned  to  sallowness,  the  dark  brows  made  her  face 
appear  lowering,  sullen.  She  tried  to  listen  to  Loetitia, 
to  answer  her  naturally  when  she  said  pleasantly  that  it 
would  be  well  to  cultivate  an  amiable  expression.  But 
her  words  grew  fewer,  each  speech  shorter.  It  was  a 
relief  when  she  was  free  to  go  to  bed. 

The  next  few  days  were  as  bad,  or  worse,  than  the  first 
night's  dinner.  Manuella  could  never  look  back  upon 
them  without  pity  for  herself.  She  was  past  the  age 
when  she  would  fling  herself  on  to  the  ground  and  kick 
and  scream  for  her  own  way,  as  had  been  her  reprehen- 
sible habit  in  the  nursery  and  schoolroom,  making  cor- 


CONCERT    PITCH  29 

poral  punishment  a  necessity.  But  she  could  and  did 
resent  everything  that  was  being  done  for  her.  Accord- 
ing to  her  stepmother  she  showed  an  absolute  lack  of 
gratitude,  or  sense  of  her  position. 

She  began  by  objecting  to  her  maid. 

"  I  hate  her  standing  over  me  when  I  dress.  I  don't 
want  anybody  to  put  my  stockings  on  for  me;  I  can 
put  them  on  for  myself.  Can't  I  send  her  away  ?  " 

"  You  have  to  think  of  your  position,  of  our  position," 
Loetitia  answered  coldly  to  such  complaints. 

"  I  don't  see  why  I  can't  go  out  by  myself,  I  am  nearly 
eighteen,"  was  the  beginning  of  another  argument. 

"  That  is  precisely  the  reason.  I  should  have  thought 
you  would  have  had  enough  sense  to  perceive  that  you 
must  learn  to  behave  as  if  you  were  a  young  lady  of 
birth,  as  if  you  had  been  born  in  the  society  to  which  I 
have  given  you  the  entree." 

By  what  process  of  reasoning  Lcetitia  had  been  brought 
to  consider  herself  so  infinitely  superior  to  her  husband's 
children  is  difficult  to  follow,  but  that  she  was  firmly 
convinced  of  it  is  not  open  to  doubt.  Manuella  had  her 
fitful  outbursts  of  anger,  made  her  futile  struggles.  Lady 
Wagner  said  it  was  wonderful  how  little  she  had  im- 
proved. Albert  begged  her  to  conform,  not  to  fight  every 
project  for  her  benefit.  She  must  have  a  maid,  every 
girl  had  a  maid.  She  '  couldn't  run  about  the  streets 
by  herself,  it  wasn't  decent,  it  wasn't  proper.'  After 
all,  it  was  true  that  they  had  a  position  to  keep  up.  She 
felt  Albert's  defection  bitterly;  she  heard  Lcetitia's 
phrases  on  his  lips.  She  did  not  know  that  he  pleaded 
with  Loetitia  for  her,  in  his  own  way,  of  course,  but 
quite  loyally. 

"  I  should  let  her  down  lightly,  Mater.  She'll  come 
round  in  time,  she  don't  know  what's  good  for  her;  she 
may  kick  up  her  heels  in  the  paddock,  but  she'll  go  all 
right  when  we  race  her." 

Albert  was  allowed  to  be  slangy,  even  vulgar.  It 
seemed  it  was  the  thing  at  Eton  and  Oxford ;  all  his 
young  friends  indulged  in  the  same  manner  of  speech. 


30  CONCERT    PITCH 

In  a  modified  way  she  even  took  his  advice.  Manuella, 
in  those  first  weeks  of  her  home-coming,  had  nothing  to 
complain  of  but  kindness,  crushing,  continual  kindness, 
and  irresistible  cold  logic.  That  was  the  worst  of  it. 
It  was  true  that  all  that  was  required  of  her  was  to  con- 
form to  custom,  to  have  her  hair  done  properly  and  her 
dresses  lengthened,  to  fit  on  a  great  many  new  clothes, 
and  learn  the  etiquette  of  presentation. 

There  was  little  enough  time  to  change  what  Loetitia 
euphemistically  termed  "  an  overgrown  school-girl  "  into 
a  young  lady  fitted  to  take  her  place  in  Society.  Lcetitia 
took  her  to  dressmakers,  corseticres,  milliners,  sparing 
no  expense.  If  the  girl  writhed  or  flushed  or  fidgeted, 
shrugging  impatient  shoulders  at  the  discussion  of  her 
face,  figure,  or  carriage,  which  went  on  openly  before  her, 
Lcetitia  betrayed  a  dignified  unconsciousness  of  it.  She 
was  conscious  of  doing  her  duty. 

There  was,  of  course,  nothing  but  duty  in  it,  more 
could  hardly  have  been  expected.  Their  two  tempera- 
ments were  at  variance,  and  their  respective  positions 
made  common  ground  impossible. 

The  old  adage  about  children  being  seen  and  not 
heard  seemed  to  Manuella  still  to  lurk  behind  her  step- 
mother's politeness.  After  a  half-hearted  attempt  to  talk 
about  the  charms  of  Fontainebleau,  those  tedious  shop- 
ping and  fitting  expeditions  were  made  in  comparative 
silence,  and  the  afternoon  drives  were  little  more  lively. 

Loetitia  had  a  way  of  delicately  snubbing  advances,  and 
Manuella  made  none  after  the  first  week.  Rebel  as  she 
might,  it  was  true  she  had  no  cause  of  complaint,  noth- 
ing was  being  omitted  from  her  social  equipment.  She  was 
given  riding-lessons  in  a  close,  tan-smelling  school,  pri- 
vate dancing  lessons,  complexion-treatment  and  specifics 
were  offered  her.  Loetitia  never  lost  an  opportunity 
of  letting  fall  conventional  phrases  on  life  and  conduct. 

Lcetitia  had  expanded  since  she  became  Lady  Wagner, 
and  now  she  had  attained  her  full  growth.  She  was 
satisfied  with  everything  she  had,  or  did,  or  thought. 
She  often  said  that  she  wished  Manuella  were  more  like 


CONCERT    PITCH  31 

herself.  She  drew  attention  to  her  own  smiles  and  little 
graceful  bows  to  the  acquaintances  they  met  in  the  Park 
— graduated  bows.  She  was  never  impulsive,  and  dep- 
recated that  quality  as  being  thoroughly  middle  class. 
She  said  you  could  tell  a  lady  by  these  little  things,  and 
by  the  way  she  walked  and  moved.  Lcetitia  was  un- 
wearied in  pointing  out  that  when  Manuella  walked  she 
took  too  long  steps ;  she  was  neither  languid  nor  stately, 
she  lacked  distinction.  Lcetitia  warned  her  that  she  must 
be  always  on  her  guard. 

As  all  these  things  were  told  or  hinted  to  her,  kindly, 
but  very  constantly,  the  girl  became  stifled  by  them. 
She  was  always  solitary,  yet  never  alone.  She  seemed 
to  be  living  under  a  feather-bed,  everything  was  soft, 
decorous,  silent;  she  really  became  a  little  crushed  by 
the  great  house  and  many  servants,  by  Lcetitia's  personal 
and  genuine  conviction  of  infallibility,  and  by  the  im- 
possibility of  argument  with  her.  There  was  nothing  to 
justify  her  sense  of  being  wronged.  Anything  she  asked 
for  was  given  to  her,  or,  at  least,  not  refused. 

"  You  will  not  have  time  for  singing  lessons  just  yet, 
later  on,  perhaps.  I  see  no  objection  to  your  continuing 
with  your  music  at  the  end  of  the  season,  when  you  are 
less  occupied.  My  dear,  if  you  could  hold  your  back  a 
little  straighten  ..." 

"  My  love,  could  you  manage  to  subdue  your  voice 
a  little?  A  low  voice  in  woman  is  such  a  great  attrac- 
tion. ..." 

What  was  the  use  of  muttering  that  she  did  not  want 
to  be  attractive?  She  knew  she  talked  too  loudly,  was 
conscious  of  an  inclination  to  stoop.  It  was  true  that 
there  was  no  time  for  singing-lessons  at  the  moment. 
Her  days  were  rilled  with  dressmakers  and  frivolous,  un- 
necessary things.  Her  stepmother  was  always  by  her 
side,  directing,  instructing  her  in  the  duties  of  her  posi- 
tion. She  was  growing  more  uncertain  about  her  voice, 
and  whether  she  would  not  be  found  ridiculous  if  she 
repeated  what  Monsieur  Lausan  had  said,  it  was  "  impos- 
sible to  let  such  a  gift  lie  idle."  Now  when  she  raised  it 


32  CONCERT    PITCH 

in  the  rare  solitude  of  her  own  sitting-room  it  sounded 
muffled,  dull,  as  if  the  house  were  too  large  for  it,  or  as 
if  it  had  contracted  to  fit  some  refinement  of  her  step- 
mother's taste.  Her  days  were  full,  yet  it  seemed  to  her 
she  had  nothing  to  do.  She  had  been  well  taught,  both 
in  Germany  and  France,  but  not  in  the  art  of  looking  her 
best,  which  here  seemed  all  that  was  required  of  her. 

In  Germany  she  had  learned  needlework,  cooking, 
even  accounts,  but  not  how  to  enter  and  leave  a  room, 
to  step  into  a  carriage  or  motor,  to  curtsy  to  her  Sov- 
ereign, to  dance  modern  dances.  If  they  had  left  her 
for  a  longer  time  at  Fontainebleau  she  might  have  ac- 
quired these  further  accomplishments. 

If  it  appears  that  the  girl  fell  too  easily  under  Lcetitia's 
sway,  and  showed  herself  weak  in  resistance,  the  excuse 
is  that  her  supineness  was  due  to  physical  rather  than 
moral  causes. 

She  was  in  the  period  of  growth  and  her  life  in  Conti- 
nental schools  had  not  fitted  her  for  so  sudden  a  transi- 
tion. The  transplantation  affected  her,  and,  although  it 
sounds  a  non  sequitur,  the  food  also! 

The  food  at  the  German  schools  had  been  sufficient  and 
simple.  It  was  less  so  at  the  Fontainebleau  chateau.  The 
old  French  aristocrat  who  dominated  it  had  penurious 
habits,  and,  although  she  condescended  to  receive  a 
limited  number  of  young  ladies,  she  had  no  idea  of  spend- 
ing on  their  upkeep  the  remuneration  she  accepted  for 
permitting  them  to  enjoy  the  amenities  of  her  fast- 
decaying  but  still  magnificent  home.  They  subdued  their 
healthy  young  appetites,  those  pupils  of  Madame  de 
Fontenoy,  to  the  meagre  fare  of  the  aristocratic  estab- 
lishment, ate  rolls  and  coffee,  and  fasted  until  the 
dejeuner  of  eggs,  and  one  small  plat  of  meat ;  learnt  to 
be  satisfied  with  soup  maigre  in  the  evenings,  to  keep 
religiously  all  the  Saints'  days,  and  days  of  fasting. 

The  change  from  this  to  the  regime  of  the  Stone  House 
chef,  was  not  without  its  effect  on  a  constitution  so  youth- 
ful, and  a  temperament  so  emotional  as  that  of  Manuella 
Wagner.  It  clogged  her  activities.  She  became  ener- 


CONCERT    PITCH  33 

vated,  she  felt  sometimes  as  if  she  were  caught  in  a  trap. 
When  once  she  felt  like  that  it  was  natural  she  should 
cease  to  struggle. 

Lcetitia  had  reason  to  congratulate  herself  on  the  re- 
sult of  her  care,  and  her  six  weeks'  incessant  work. 
Manuella,  on  the  day  of  her  presentation,  was  almost 
standardized,  fashioned  to  pattern.  She  had  lost  weight, 
the  "  puppy  fat "  and  the  ebullience  had  gone.  If  fault 
could  still  be  found  with  her  carriage  it  was  nevertheless 
obvious,  to  everyone  but  Lcetitia,  that  she  had  natural 
grace  and  considerably  more  than  usual  good  looks.  And 
it  was  difficult  to  question  her  manner ;  she  had  the  quiet 
of  her  stifled  spirit,  the  veneer  that  had  been  laid  upon 
her  showed  no  immediate  crack. 


CHAPTER  III 

THE  presentation  duly  took  place  and  all  the  Society 
papers  made  mention  of  "  the  beautiful  daughter  of 
Sir  Hubert  and  Lady  Wagner,"  among  the  debutantes, 
which,  of  course,  in  its  way,  was  extremely  gratifying. 

Lord  Calingford  dined  at  Stone  House  a  day  or  two 
later,  and  Manuella  was  sent  in  to  dinner  with  him.  At 
her  first  ball  it  was  observed  that  he  paid  her  marked 
attention.  On  the  opening  night  of  the  opera  he  was  seen 
in  the  Wagners'  box.  Rumours  were  afloat  before  the 
season  was  a  week  old.  In  a  column  devoted  to  Society 
in  one  of  the  illustrated  weeklies,  under  the  heading 
"  Overheard  by  the  little  Bird,"  there  were  two  lines 
to  the  effect  "  that  the  engagement  between  the  heir  to  a 
Dukedom  and  one  of  the  most  beautiful  of  the  debutantes 
will  be  formally  notified  in  the  course  of  a  few  days." 

Lady  Sallust,  who  had  not  anticipated  so  much  hurry, 
came  hot  foot  to  Stone  House  with  stories  of  Calingford's 
record,  Calingford's  character.  But,  with  the  acquisition 
of  Stone  House,  Lcetitia's  attitude  had  changed  toward 
Lady  Sallust,  to  whom  she  no  longer  deferred  abso- 
lutely. 

"  We  must  make  allowances,  we  cannot  put  old  heads 
on  young  shoulders,"  was  her  complacent  reply  to  Lady 
Sallust's  relation  of  the  enormities  of  which  Harry  Cal- 
ingford had  been  guilty. 

She  said  it  with  that  air  of  complete  originality  that 

34 


CONCERT    PITCH  35 

always  characterized  her  cliches.  "  Like  other  young- 
men  who  are  exposed  to  temptation,  he  has  sown  his 
wild  oats.  ..." 

"  Dragon's  teeth,"  interpolated  Lady  Sallust.  But  her 
allusion  was  a  little  beyond  the  ex-governess. 

"  In  any  case  discussion  is  premature.  We  have  not 
yet  heard  from  the  Duke."  It  was  obvious  that  Loetitia 
was  secretly  elated,  and  in  no  humour  for  discussion 
as  to  the  character  of  the  projected  bridegroom.  She 
gave  Lady  Sallust  no  opportunity  to  mention  Waldo's 
name  or  bring  forward  his  pretensions. 

It  is  to  be  presumed  that  the  Duke  made  the  requisite 
move,  for  the  formal  announcement  was  in  the  Morning 
Post  two  days  later.  Albert  swelled  over  it  visibly,  and 
spoke  of  "  My  future  brother-in-law,  Calingford,  you 
know.  He  will  be  Duke  of  Banff.  ..."  Lady  Wagner 
now  called  Manuella  "  My  love,"  and  deferred  to  her 
judgment  on  minor  matters,  such  as  her  own  toilet  or 
daily  round  of  duties. 

Manuella  herself  hardly  knew  how  it  came  about  that 
she  was  engaged  to  be  married  to  Lord  Calingford.  She 
did  not  remember  that  he  had  ever  asked  her,  although 
he  seemed  to  have  been  by  her  side  ever  since  the  first 
Court.  She  seemed  to  be  fighting  her  way  through 
shadows,  moving  in  a  pageant  of  dreams.  Everybody 
was  now  extraordinarily  pleased  with  her.  Her  step- 
mother found  no  more  fault.  Albert  hugged  her,  and  said 
she  was  a  "  ripper  " ;  her  father  remembered  her  exist- 
ence and  gave  her  money  and  jewellery ;  she  was  no 
longer  a  stranger  in  the  house.  As  for  Calingford  him- 
self, the  man  she  was  going  to  marry,  he  was  not  in  the 
least  intrusive,  and  during  the  first  few  days  of  her  en- 
gagement she  never  saw  him  alone. 

She  sat  by  his  side  at  the  dinner-party  the  Banffs  gave 
in  her  honour.  It  was  quite  a  small  family  dinner-party. 
The  Sallusts  were  invited,  but  it  was  merely  a  coincidence 
that  Lord  Sallust  had  to  be  in  the  House,  and  Lady 
Sallust  persuaded  her  nephew  to  take  his  place.  Really 
a  coincidence,  because  Lady  Sallust  had  abandoned  her 


36  CONCERT    PITCH 

project.  Banff  was  very  old  and  shaky,  and  since  the 
girl  had  accepted  Calingford,  and  Loetitia  shut  her  ears 
deliberately  to  everything  that  was  said  against  him 
there  was  nothing  more  to  be  done.  She  told  Waldo  all 
about  it  again  on  their  way  to  the  Banffs'  dinner-party. 
He  condoled  with  her,  and  said  gravely  that  it  was  most 
unfortunate.  She  had  forgotten  that  he  had  not  fallen 
in  with  her  plans,  and  there  was  no  need  to  remind  her 
under  the  circumstances. 

"  You  don't  think  they  will  send  me  in  with  her  to- 
night, my  future  mother-in-law  that  is  not  to  be,  do 
you?  I  haven't  got  up  any  of  those  subjects  she  ex- 
amined me  upon.  It  will  be  a  case  of  switching  if  they 
do.  I'm  sure  of  it ;  she  will  report  me  to  some  one.  ..." 

He  was  full  of  mock  fears  of  Lcetitia,  and  asked  no 
questions  about  Harry  Calingford's  fiancee,  who  should, 
according  to  his  aunt,  have  been  his. 

Lord  Lyssons  no  longer  minded  his  aunt  talking  about 
his  marriage,  for  his  plans  were  quite  settled.  He  was 
going  back  to  Nigeria.  The  estates  would  become  free 
gradually;  the  lawyers  had  the  matter  well  in  hand. 
It  might  take  three,  or  even  five  years ;  but,  should  any- 
thing happen  to  him  in  the  meantime,  his  young  cousin 
Gilbert  would  find  that  everything  had  been  straightened 
out.  As  for  himself,  he  had  become  convinced  that  he 
was  not  cut  out  to  be  a  great  English  aristocrat.  In 
common  with  that  girl  he  had  met  on  the  boat,  and  of 
whom  he  sometimes  caught  himself  thinking,  freedom 
was  his  great  need.  He  saw  it  in  front  of  him  for  the 
next  few  years  at  least,  and  consequently  he  was  in  the 
best  of  spirits. 

Lady  Sallust  enjoyed  her  drive  from  Grosvenor  Square 
to  the  Inner  Circle  of  Regent's  Park. 

"  One  always  feels  they  live  in  the  Zoo,"  she  said, 
plaintively,  when  she  had  given  the  footman  the 
address. 

"  What  entertainment  could  be  better  than  seeing  the 
animals  feed?  It  is  kind  of  you  to  bring  me.  I  suppose 
we  shall  see  Harry  Calingford  champing  his  jaws,  five- 


CONCERT    PITCH  37 

pound  notes  dropping  from  his  mouth,  with  horrid  growls 
and  noises,  as  he  scrunches  up  that  million." 

He  had  very  little  real  interest  in  the  subject,  was 
only  going  to  this  dinner-party  to  oblige  his  aunt,  and 
amused  himself  with  inconsequences  to  pass  the  time. 
He  knew  he  would  be  bored. 

Considering  he  had  so  often  thought  of  the  girl  he  had 
/met  on  the  boat,  it  was  strange  that,  during  the  first  half 
of  the  Banffs'  dinner-party,  he  failed  to  recognize  her. 
But  perhaps  it  was  not  so  strange  as  it  seemed.  Manuella 
by  this  time  had  been  run,  as  it  were,  into  a  mould,  and 
become,  outwardly  at  least,  like  all  the  other  girls  in 
their  first  season  who  were  dressed  by  Paquin,  Jay,  or 
Hayward,  coiffed  by  Lentheric,  and  hatted  by  Lewis. 
One  could  not  see  the  tree  for  the  foliage.  And  Lord 
Lyssons  was  looking  at  neither.  He  had  been  sent  in  to 
dinner  with  the  Duke's  sister,  who  was  eighty  years 
old;  very  scraggy,  very  deaf,  and  notoriously  disagree- 
able. She  had,  of  course,  been  destined  for  Lord 
Sallust. 

"  Lucky  fellow,  my  uncle,"  Lyssons  ventured  to  say 
to  her,  half-way  through  dinner. 

"  I  don't  see  it ;  he  has  been  out  of  office  seven  years," 
she  snapped. 

"  The  privilege  of  serving  his  country  .  .  .  to-night," 
he  suggested. 

"  What  is  going  on  to-night  ?  More  trucklings  to  that 
wretched  little  Welsh  solicitor." 

She,  too,  was  rabidly  political,  and  Waldo  was  even 
more  bored  than  he  anticipated.  She  spoke  of  the  mar- 
riage afterwards,  and  asked  what  he  thought  about  it. 

"  Dreadful,  I  call  it,  quite  dreadful !  Such  people ! 
I  don't  know  what  Banff  is  thinking  of." 

"Which  is  the  bride?"  Waldo  asked,  and,  with  his 
glass  in  his  eye,  looked  round  the  table  indifferently. 

"  She  is  sitting  beside  him.  They  call  her  good-look- 
ing, but  I  am  sure  I  cannot  see  it.  She  is  heavy  and  sul- 
len or  stupid.  I  know  I  cannot  get  a  word  out  of  her." 

"  Good  heavens !  "    He  took  his  glass  out ;  the  ejacula- 


38  CONCERT    PITCH 

tion  was  under  his  breath.  "  It  can't  be,  but  it  is !  What 
have  they  done  to  her  ?  " 

Lady  Araminta  had  but  a  dull  companion  after  that; 
he  was  too  abstracted  even  to  make  fun  of  her.  All  her 
malicious  or  spiteful  speeches  passed  him  unheeded. 
When  she  asked  him  what  he  thought  of  the  "mesal- 
liance," he  scarcely  answered. 

So  that  was  the  Wagners'  daughter;  the  girl  of  the 
boat !  How  often  he  had  caught  himself  thinking  of  her. 
But  never  like  this.  She  was  going  to  marry  Harry  Cal- 
ingford.  How  had  it  come  about  ?  He  recalled  all  he  knew 
of  Calingford.  It  seemed  to  him  a  horrible  sacrifice — 
that  child — and  Calingford  !  Truly  it  was  throwing  her  to 
the  wolves.  He  looked  at  her  again,  wondering  about  her. 

The  dinner  lasted  an  inordinate  time;  everything  was 
done  in  an  old-fashioned  way;  the  dinner-table  looked  as 
if  it  had  come  out  of  the  Ark.  There  were  huge  epergnes 
loaded  with  fruit  and  flowers,  early  Victorian.  But  for 
the  intervening  epergnes  she  might  have  recognized  him. 
There  was  neither  light  in  her  eyes  nor  flush  upon  her 
cheek;  she  looked  tired,  sallow,  not  happy,  certainly  she 
did  not  look  happy. 

"  The  last  girl  in  the  world  I  should  have  thought 
would  have  married  for  a  title." 

He  had  already  half  a  mind  to  seek  her  out  afterwards 
and  ask  her  why  she  was  doing  it.  That  she-dragon  of 
a  stepmother  perhaps. 

The  interminable  dinner  came  to  an  end.  The  ladies 
left  the  room ;  he  tried  again  to  catch  her  eyes  and  failed. 
When  he  sat  down,  Harry  Calingford  had  moved  his  seat 
to  the  one  beside  him. 

The  two  men  had  been  at  Eton  together,  although  there 
were  five  or  six  years  between  them. 

Calingford  was  a  short,  thickset  man,  with  a  narrow 
forehead,  red  nose  and  heavy  moustache.  He  had  a 
certain  contempt  for  Lyssons,  who  was  a  lower  boy  when 
he  left  Eton  in  all  the  pride  of  Pop.  Waldo  was  "  only  a 
parson's  son "  then,  and  had  been  educated  at  home ; 
two  very  good  reasons  for  despising  him.  And  there 


CONCERT    PITCH  39 

were  others ;  he  was  a  "  sap,"  and  went  in  for  prizes. 
They  had  met  very  seldom  in  after-life,  their  ways  lay  so 
far  apart.  Still,  the  school-days  were  a  link,  and  Harry 
was  by  way  of  being  host. 

"  Seems  a  century  since  you  and  I  were  at  school 
together.  You've  been  after  big  game,  haven't  you? 
Come  home  to  settle  down?  Same  old  round.  I've  got 
jolly  sick  of  it,  you  know  I'm  going  to  be  married — of 
course  you  know  it.  Remember  when  Dunholme  and 
I  wrote  exeats  for  each  other,  and  took  a  couple  of  days 
in  town,  and  the  Governor  came  down  unexpectedly? 
We  nearly  got  sacked  over  that  job.  By  God !  we  did. 
I  believe  it  was  before  your  time.  What  a  queer  little 
devil  you  were,  and  how  we  roasted  you ! " 

Waldo  remembered  vividly  how  he  had  hated  him, 
fag  master  and  head  of  the  house,  tyrant  and  bully, 
unmentionably  worse.  He  found  his  old  dislike  return- 
ing. Calingford  became  talkative  over  his  wine;  he  be- 
gan to  drink  before  he  left  Eton,  and  it  was  a  habit  that 
had  grown  on  him.  Waldo  thought  that  he  was  just  the 
same.  Characters  never  alter,  they  only  develop. 

He  became  uneasily  conscious  that  the  man  revolted 
him,  that  everything  he  said  jarred,  that  in  another 
minute  or  two  he  would  probably  be  extremely  rude  to 
him.  He  pushed  his  chair  back,  thinking  he  had  better 
get  away,  upstairs,  or  out  of  the  house.  Harry  Caling- 
ford would  not  let  him  escape  so  easily ;  he  went  on  talk- 
ing— school  days,  college  days,  then  back  again  to  his 
approaching  marriage,  about  which  he  became  extremely 
communicative. 

"  Hard  lines  on  Milly,  isn't  it  ?  We've  been  together 
six  years  now;  but  what's  a  fellow  to  do?  I'm  glad  I 
never  let  her  leave  the  stage.  You  saw  her  in  the  Girl 
from  the  East,  I  suppose?  Ripping  song,  hers  in  the 
second  act.  They  talk  of  these  Russian  dancers ;  give  me 
an  English  girl,  I  say,  for  make  and  movement !  Look 
at  Milly's  figure  now.  ..." 

The  Duke  rose,  and  the  other  men  followed  his  ex- 
ample; it  was  time  to  join  the  ladies. 


40  CONCERT    PITCH 

The  first  thing  Lord  Lyssons  did  on  returning  to  the 
drawing-room  was  to  find  his  aunt,  and  the  first  question 
he  asked  her,  without  circumlocution  or  preliminary,  was : 

"And  who  is  Milly?" 

"Milly?     Milly?" 

Lady  Sallust  looked  round  the  room  inquiringly  with 
a  puzzled  expression. 

"You  are  always  so  abrupt.  Milly  who?  I  don't  see 
any  Milly." 

"  No !  I  suppose  she  is  not  here  to-night  ?  On  con- 
sideration, I  should  think  it  very  unlikely  she  would  be 
invited,  although  I  hear  she  is  such  a  great  friend  of  the 
bridegroom's.  ..." 

"  Of  Harry  Calingford's  !  Of  course !  Why  didn't  you 
say  what  you  meant.  You  never  do,  I'm  sure  I  don't 
know  why !  You  mean  Milly  Leroy,  of  the  Gaiety.  But 
who  has  been  talking  about  her  ?  "  She  dropped  her  voice. 

"  They  say  he  has  two  children  by  her,  and  she  is 
seriously  attached  to  him — devoted,  in  fact.  She  has  not 
appeared  since  the  engagement  has  been  announced. 
The  Duke  is  to  make  a  settlement.  Of  course,  he  won't 
really  give  her  up.  I  declare  I  am  sorry  for  that  girl." 

"Milly?" 

"  Don't  be  absurd ;  the  Wagner  girl.  She  would  be 
really  quite  handsome  if  only  she  had  a  little  more 
animation." 

"  And  is  she,  too,  devoted  to  Calingford  ?  " 

"  I  don't  believe  she  knows  what  she  is  doing.  Did 
you  ever  see  a  girl  look  more  depressed;  she  watches 
Lcetitia's  eye.  ..." 

"  Take  me  over  and  introduce  me.  I  want  to  con- 
gratulate her,  Calingford  and  I  were  at  Eton  together." 

The  introduction  was  effected  and  he  dropped  into  the 
vacant  seat  beside  Manuella. 

"  You  don't  remember  me,"  was  the  first  thing  he  said 
to  her. 

"  Yes,  I  do,"  she  answered  quickly.  "  I  knew  you  at 
once."  Then  she  smiled,  and  it  was  the  first  sign  of 
animation  she  had  shown ;  he  saw  the  child  in  her  again, 


CONCERT    PITCH  41 

the  smile  was  mischievous,  amused.  "  I  wish  Albert  were 
here,  he  was  so  certain  you  were  a  bagman ;  he  was 
awfully  angry  with  me  for  talking  to  you." 

"  I  think  myself  it  was  somewhat  unladylike,"  he  said 
coolly.  She  glanced  at  him  astonished.  "  Reprehensible. 
In  fact,  you  must  have  lost  sight  of  your  position." 
She  saw  then  that  he  was  imitating  her  stepmother,  and 
laughed  again. 

Calingford  sauntered  up  to  them  and  said : 

"  You  seem  to  be  saying  something  very  amusing ; 
dashed  if  I've  ever  seen  Miss  Wagner  laugh  before." 
She  changed  countenance  when  he  came  up  to  them,  but 
he  did  not  stay.  "  I'll  come  back  presently.  I  suppose  I 
must  make  myself  agreeable  to  some  of  these  people." 

Lyssons  rescrewed  his  eyeglass  and  regarded  her  again. 

"  A  bagman !  That  was  a  bad  guess  of  Albert's !  I 
suppose  Albert  is  your  brother.  I  thought  you  were 
quite  a  little  girl.  Haven't  you  grown  up  very  quickly? 
I  can't  make  it  out  at  all.  Don't  look  as  if  you  want  to  get 
up  and  follow  Calingford,  you  will  have  time  enough  for 
him ;  you  can  surely  give  me  five  minutes." 

The  toss  of  the  head,  the  flush,  the  quick  unspoken  de- 
nial altered  her  completely. 

"  I  have  often  wondered  what  became  of  you,  or 
whether  the  Great  Eastern  swallowed  you  up.  I've  any 
number  more  of  adventures  to  relate.  Do  you  think  Cal- 
ingford will  be  jealous  if  I  sit  here?" 

"  I  don't  care  if  he  is." 

"  It  is  only  the  strawberry  leaves,  then  ? "  he  ex- 
claimed, as  if  inadvertently.  She  turned  startled  eyes 
upon  him.  He  had  little  forgotten  what  wonderful  eyes 
they  were;  he  looked  full  into  them  and  said  coolly: 

"  Don't  be  cross." 

"Why  did  you  say  that?" 

"  Well,  I  suppose  I  must  congratulate  you,  and  that  was 
my  way  of  doing  it,  a  little  unconventional,  perhaps, 
but  I  am  unconventional ;  my  aunt  tells  me  so  constantly. 
I  suppose  you  are  going  to  be  married  almost  imme- 
diately?" 


42  CONCERT    PITCH 

"  I  don't  know." 

"  Now  you  are  frowning.  I  say,  I  believe  Calingford 
is  going  to  have  a  devil  of  a  time.  You  have  a  bad 
temper,  haven't  you?" 

She  reddened;  it  was  extraordinary  how  much  of  the 
child  there  was  still  in  her.  What  was  more  extraordinary 
still  was  the  strange  pain  it  gave  him  to  recognize  it.  The 
pain  ebbed  to  tenderness  and  hurt  him.  Poor  child !  poor 
hare !  Of  course,  she  had  not  been  allowed  a  run.  His 
aunt  was  a  lunatic  to  think  he  might  have  taken  Caling- 
ford's  place;  but  already  he  wished  anyone  but  Caling- 
ford had  it. 

"  Everyone  says  I  have  a  bad  temper  so  I  suppose 
it's  true." 

"You  don't  bite!" 

"  No." 

She  smiled  again.  He  thought  her  mouth  the  prettiest 
thing  about  her,  although  that,  too,  had  lost  some  of  its 
colour. 

"  I  wonder  at  that.  I  should,  in  your  case.  I  should 
have  bitten  Lady  Wagner,  I  am  sure  of  it.  I  nearly  did 
it  the  last  time  we  met." 

He  wanted  to  get  that  strained  look  out  of  her  eyes  and 
the  laughter  back  into  them.  As  he  sat  there  talking  light 
nonsense,  he  saw  the  alteration  in  her  more  plainly.  And 
yet  it  seemed  to  him  it  was  only  an  external  alteration, 
that  underneath  it  was  the  girl  of  the  boat.  He  went  on 
talking  to  her  until  the  time  came  for  them  both  to  go. 
There  was  not  a  word  of  seriousness,  hardly  of  sense,  in 
what  he  said,  but  it  seemed  to  amuse  her;  she  laughed 
and  responded.  He  spoke  again  of  their  unlicensed  ac- 
quaintance, and  recalled  Albert's  supercilious  looks.  It 
seemed  a  very  long  time  ago,  the  last  pleasant  thing  she 
remembered.  She  had  been  only  a  child  then  ;  she  wished 
she  were  a  child  still.  She  had  forgotten  her  dreams 
since  she  had  become  engaged,  but  she  remembered 
them  again  when  Lord  Lyssons  told  her  how  much  she 
had  altered. 


CONCERT    PITCH  43 

"You  are  as  different  as  possible;  you  are  the  pattern 
young  debutante  of  the  London  season." 

But  it  was  not  the  debutante  he  saw,  the  debutante  in 
the  white  satin  dress,  with  the  string  of  priceless  pearls 
and  the  hair  with  feathers;  it  was  that  which  was  im- 
prisoned in  them.  When  at  her  stepmother's  notification 
she  rose  to  go,  he  said: 

"  We  shall  meet  again,  I  suppose  ?  " 

She  answered  impulsively,  for  Loetitia  had  not  suc- 
ceeded in  checking  her  impulsiveness  completely: 

"  Oh !    I  hope  so." 

"  What  a  damned  shame !  What  a  damned,  infernal 
shame ! "  he  said,  when  he  was  in  the  carriage  with  his 
aunt,  returning  to  d'osvenor  Square. 

"  What  ?    My  dear  boy !  what  has  happened  ?  " 

He  had  forgotten  he  was  not  alone. 

"  The  Insurance  Bill,"  he  answered  promptly.  "  It  is 
impossible  to  defend  the  Contributory  Clauses." 

"  Yoy  may  well  say  so.  ...  " 

The  herring  was  a  complete  success;  the  topic  lasted 
until  he  left  her  at  her  own  door,  again  persuaded  that  he 
was  more  serious-minded  than  appeared  on  the  surface. 


CHAPTER  IV 

THEY  met  again,  not  once,  but  many  times;  they 
seemed  to  be  always  meeting.  There  was  nothing 
strange  in  that,  for  they  moved  in  the  same  world, 
and  very  little  manoeuvring  was  necessary  to  bring  it 
about.  Manoeuvring  is  hardly  the  word,  it  really  occurred 
naturally.  Manuella  had  more  freedom  now ;  part  of  the 
responsibility  for  her  conduct  was  Lord  Calingford's. 
At  least,  that  was  the  way  Lcetitia  looked  upon  it,  and 
felt  she  was  no  longer  tied  to  her  uncongenial  task. 

Lord  Calingford  was  not  an  early  riser.  It  was  with 
Lord  Lyssons  Manuella  took  her  early  morning  ride  in 
the  Row.  She  became  on  easy  and  familiar  terms  with 
him  while  her  fiance  remained  little  more  than  a  figure- 
head. She  had  a  way  of  regarding  Calingford  as  one  of 
her  stepmother's  friends,  and  was  stiff  and  unreal  in  his 
company,  formal,  exhibiting  all  the  new  polish  that 
Lcetitia  had  imparted  to  her.  With  Lord  Lyssons  she  let 
herself  go.  He  was  too  tall  and  thin  to  look  well  on 
horseback.  She  christened  the  large  beast  he  bestrode 
"  Rosinante,"  and  always  called  him  Don  Quixote.  The 
light  surface  talk  between  them  was  of  adventure  and 
horses,  with  easy  badinage. 

"  You  talk  to  me  as  if  I  were  ten  years  old,"  she  said 
once  petulantly. 

"  I  know.     I  forget  your  years,  I  only  talk  to  your 

44 


CONCERT    PITCH  45 

intelligence."    He  liked  teasing  her  and  seeing  her  pout 
or  frown. 

"  I  don't  mind  your  being  bad-tempered,"  he  told  her 
once.  "  What  I  can't  stand  is  seeing  you  look  as  if  you 
have  become  slowly  petrified  under  your  stepmother's 
stony  eye." 

"  When  do  I  look  like  that  ?  " 

She  gave  her  horse  a  touch  with  the  whip,  galloped 
up  the  tan,  and  did  not  wait  for  an  answer.  He  galloped 
after  her,  remaining  silent  until  she  pulled  her  horse  in 
again.  When  they  were  trotting  side  by  side,  as  if  there 
had  been  no  pause  in  question  and  answer,  he  said : 

"  When  you  are  with  your  fiance." 

Now  their  horses  were  walking,  and  he  was  watching 
her.  Her  face  was  shadowed  by  the  broad-brimmed 
riding-hat,  a  little  averted  from  him.  He  went  on,  be- 
cause he  wanted  to  make  her  face  him. 

"  I  suppose  your  feelings  are  too  much  for  you,"  he 
said  contemplatively;  "you  are  so  awfully  in  love  with 
the  fellow  that  you  can't  talk.  I've  heard  of  that  kind  of 
thing."  And  then,  for  he  saw  the  flush,  and  that  he  was 
making  her  angry,  he  added  thoughtfully : 

"  I  don't  know  the  symptoms  very  well.  I  have  never 
been  in  love  myself." 

"  Neither  have  I,"  she  flashed  at  him,  as  if  he  were 
accusing  her  of  something  unworthy  or  ridiculous. 
"  Neither  have  I.  Who  said  I  had  ?  What  has  love  to 
do  with  it?  You  are  always  trying  to  annoy  me." 

"  But  you  were  just  as  annoyed  when  I  alluded  to  the 
attraction  strawberry-leaves  had  for  you,"  he  continued 
mildly.  "  Which  reminds  me,  by  the  way,  that  I  heard 
this  morning  the  Duke  is  ill — influenza.  Will  that  hasten 
or  retard  your  marriage  ?  " 
'  I  don't  know." 

'  Is  it  to  be  soon,  or  mustn't  I  ask  that  either?  " 
'  Not  until  the  end  of  the  season,"  she  replied  hastily. 
'  You  can  bear  the  delay  ?  " 
'  I  wish  you  wouldn't  ask  foolish  questions." 
'  It  is  a  bad  habit  of  mine." 


46  CONCERT    PITCH 

At  the  big  fancy-dress  ball  at  the  Farnboroughs',  a  few 
days  later,  they  again  found  themselves  side  by  side. 
Harry  Calingford  impersonated  the  first  Duke  of  Banff, 
a  contemporary  of  the  great  Marlborough's ;  Manuella's 
powdered  wig,  patches  and  brocaded  dress,  had  been 
selected  by  Loetitia  as  "  so  extremely  suitable."  Waldo 
dressed  the  part  she  assigned  him,  and  would  have  been 
Don  Quixote  to  the  life  but  for  that  incongruous  eye- 
glass. 

"  The  Duchess,  by  gad !  "  he  greeted  her ;  "  to  the  life, 
a  little  premature,  but  to  the  life.  Not  Browning's  Last 
Duchess,  but  Banff's  first.  I  suppose  you  fancy  yourself. 
Why  are  you  looking  cross  ?  Why  tarries  the  Duke  ?  " 

She  did  not  look  cross,  she  looked  unhappy,  and  he 
eaw  it,  and  was  a  little  unhappy  with  her,  not  seeing  the 
way  to  help  her.  Lady  Sallust  had  told  him  things  were 
not  going  well  with  the  engagement.  Lord  Calingford 
was  inattentive ;  it  was  believed  he  wished  to  get  out  of  it. 
Milly  was  understood  to  be  making  scenes. 

'  Aren't  you  enjoying  yourself  ?  " 

'  I  hate  feeling  dressed  up." 

'  As  the  Duchess  of  Banff?  " 

'  Any  way." 

'  Why  were  you  not  in  the  Row  this  morning  ?  "  She 
did  not  answer  him  for  a  moment,  and  he  repeated  the 
question. 

"  Got  up  too  late,  I  suppose.  Shockingly  idle  life  you 
lead !  "  he  said  with  mock  seriousness.  "  I  shall  have 
to  talk  to  your  stepmother." 

A  ghost  of  a  smile  lurked  in  the  corner  of  her  mouth. 

"  That  is  what  I  was  doing." 

"Talking  to  your  stepmother?" 

"  We  had  a  few  words "    She  stopped  short. 

"What  had  you  been  doing?  Not  saying  'Yes, 
please,'  or  '  No,  thank  you  '  ?  Leaving  fat  upon  your 
plate,  forgetting  your  pinafore?" 

The  few  words  she  had  had  with  her  stepmother  had 
been  on  his,  Lord  Lyssons',  account. 

"  You  must  not  allow  him  to  make  you  conspicuous 


CONCERT    PITCH  47 

with  his  attentions ;  I  understand  he  joins  you  in  your 
morning  ride.  I  dislike  to  find  fault,  but  Lord  Lyssons 
is  known  to  be  very  erratic,  almost  eccentric;  he  might 
wish  to  compromise  you.  ..." 

She  had  flamed  up  in  his  defence,  and  Loetitia  had 
ended  the  interview  loftily. 

"  Very  well.  I  am  sure  you  know  best.  Young  people 
always  know  more  than  their  elders.  We  will  not  discuss 
the  matter  any  further.  I  felt  it  my  duty  to  warn  you." 

Loetitia  avoided  scenes  with  Manuella  now.  She 
wished  she  could  expedite  the  marriage,  but  Lord  Caling- 
ford  had  spoken  of  "  the  end  of  the  season  "  ;  and  she 
could  not  show  more  eagerness  than  he. 

Manuella  remembered  the  morning's  encounter,  and 
her  ghost  of  a  smile  changed  to  a  decided  frown. 

"  I  wish  you  wouldn't  always  speak  as  if  I  were  a 
child;  it's  so  stupid.  I'm  tired  of  it." 

"  Are  you  out  of  temper  or  out  of  spirits  this  even- 
ing?" 

"  Both,"  she  answered  shortly,  turning  her  head  away 
from  him.  They  were  interrupted,  but  he  found  her 
again  in  the  conservatory  just  before  supper.  Her  fiance 
was  beside  her,  obviously  he  was  doing  his  duty,  but 
yawning  over  it ;  she  looked  unhappy,  but  Harry  Caling- 
ford  only  looked  bored.  He  greeted  Waldo  cheerfully: 

"  Hullo,  Waldo — Don  Quixote !  Good  idea ;  they 
called  you  that  at  Oxford,  didn't  they?  Here,  take  my 
place ;  won't  you  ?  I'm  not  much  of  a  dancing  man." 

When  they  were  alone  he  said  to  her  quite  frankly, 
gently — in  a  manner  different  from  the  light  and  easy  one 
he  generally  took  with  her : 

"  You  are  out  of  spirits.  Can't  you  tell  me  about  it? 
Is  there  anything  I  can  do  ?  " 

She  answered  moodily,  but  just  as  frankly : 

"  There  is  nothing  anybody  can  do.  I've  made  a  fool 
of  myself,  that's  all." 

"  It  is  Calingford,  then  ?  " 

"  I  can't  imagine  why  I  ever  said  '  yes  '  to  him.  Now 
I  have  got  to  stick  to  it,  I  suppose." 


48  CONCERT    PITCH 

"  You  don't  like  him  ?  " 

"  What  is  the  good  of  talking  about  it  ?  I  don't  like 
anything." 

"  Except  talking  to  me  ?  " 

"  Except  talking  to  you." 

She  smiled,  but  her  smile  was  a  short-lived  thing. 
"  I  hate  everything — myself  most.  You  had  better  go 
away.  I  don't  want  to  talk." 

"  I  do." 

"  Talk  to  someone  else,  then." 

"  Don't  stamp  your  foot.  You  know  you  are  mentally 
stamping  your  foot." 

Tears  were  near  the  surface  of  her  eyes,  and  he  divined 
them. 

"  Poor  girlie ! "  He  said  it  very  low,  but  she  felt  her 
eyelids  smarting.  It  was  ridiculous  to  cry  at  a  fancy 
dress  ball. 

"  I  don't  want  to  be  pitied,"  she  said  abruptly,  rudely. 

He  relapsed  into  silence,  he  did  not  know  what  he 
could  do  for  her.  They  had  hurried  and  "  jockeyed  " 
her  into  this  engagement.  She  had  given  her  word  and 
felt  that  she  must  keep  it.  She  would  have  been  better 
off  with  him.  As  he  thought  of  that  contingency,  he 
had  a  queer  little  twinge  or  thrill  in  the  region  of  his 
heart. 

"  A  beastly  mess  you've  made  of  things !  "  was  what 
he  said. 

"  I  know  I  have." 

"  There  is  no  way  out,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"It  isn't  his  fault;  he  hasn't  done  or  said  anything. 
And  I've  promised." 

He  could  see  that  she  was  turning  and  twisting  in  the 
trap  in  which  they  had  caught  her,  writhing! 

"  You  want  to  be  free !  Your  little  heart  is  panting 
for  freedom.  I  know ;  I  understand ;  that  is  why  we  are 
friends." 

"  Are  we  friends  ?  I  did  not  know  I  had  any  friends. 
My  stepmother  says  I  haven't,  that  I  should  not  keep 
them  if  I  had." 


CONCERT   PITCH  49 

"  Your  stepmother  is  ...  is  unmentionable.  Of 
course,  I  am  your  friend — Father  Confessor,  if  you  like. 
I  know  what  is  the  matter  with  you.  You  feel  trapped, 
imprisoned.  I  have  the  same  feeling  all  the  time  I  am 
in  London.  I  go  away  next  month."  Then  he  added 
lightly,  his  heart  heavy  for  her,  but  his  speech  light : 

"  It  is  a  pity  you  can't  come  with  me.  ..." 

"  To  Rhodesia  ?    Oh !  how  I  should  love  that !  " 

In  her  swift  change  of  mood  her  eyes  lit  up  under  her 
curled  lashes,  and  she  turned  to  him,  clasping  her 
hands : 

"  To  go  back  to  Rhodesia !  Yes  !  that  is  what  I  should 
like.  Wouldn't  it  be  wonderful?" 

She  was  young  and  impulsive.  Had  she  been  a  woman 
he  might  have  risked  the  speech  that  rose  to  his  lips. 
He  had  the  sudden  desire  and  quickened  heart-beat. 
"  Come,"  he  wanted  to  say.  ''  Why  not  come  ?  We'll 
taste  freedom  together." 

His  arms  were  ready  for  her,  his  heart  open.  She 
needed  care,  and  he  understood  her,  understood  her 
better  than  anyone  else;  he  felt  an  immense  impulse  of 
tenderness  towards  her,  it  was  not  for  himself  he  wanted 
her,  it  was  for  her — to  make  her  happy.  He  quite 
believed  that.  But  she  was  going  to  marry  Harry 
Calingford,  and  the  Duke  was  dying.  He  had  no  right 
to  speak,  he  had  nothing  to  offer  her.  He  pulled  himself 
together. 

"  As  it  happens,  I  am  going  to  Nigeria,"  he  said  coolly. 

She  had  flushed  and  brightened  in  that  impulsive 
minute.  Now  she  paled,  and,  because  of  the  look  she 
gave  him,  he  wanted  to  kiss  her;  it  was  the  most  irra- 
tional wish  he  had  ever  had  in  his  life,  the  most  inde- 
fensible. He  did  not  know  what  was  happening  to  him. 

"  In  a  rage  again  ? "  he  asked  softly,  after  a  few 
minutes.  "  I'll  go  to  Rhodesia,  if  you  like.  But  it  is 
not  so  interesting." 

"  I  always  say  the  wrong  thing." 

"  So  do  I.  It  is  a  way  we  have,  I  suppose ;  another 
bond  between  us.  It  does  not  matter  when  we  talk  to 


50  CONCERT    PITCH 

each  other."  She  was  grateful  to  him  for  saying  that. 
"  We  understand  each  other,"  he  added. 

"  I  suppose  we  do." 

Did  they?  He  thought  not.  He  wanted  to  kiss  her, 
for  instance,  and  it  was  impossible  that  she  wanted  to 
kiss  him. 

"  Pretty  well ;  not  quite.  You  have  not  an  idea  what 
I  am  thinking  about  at  this  moment,  for  instance." 

"  What  are  you  thinking  about  ?  " 

"  Your  lips.  ..."  He  did  not  say  it,  he  said 
instead : 

"  Don't  you  want  me  to  tell  you  about  Nigeria  ? 
flaunting  your  Rhodesia,  indeed!  Do  the  natives  paint 
their  legs  red  in  your  country?  Of  course  they  don't; 
they  are  just  commonplace  Nigs."  He  dashed  into  travel 
talk.  Strange  figures  strolled  into  the  conservatory ; 
they  were  no  longer  alone. 

"  Got  out  of  that  just  in  time,"  he  said  to  himself,  with 
a  sigh  of  relief,  when  she  was  claimed  by  a  partner.  He 
did  not  understand  himself  in  the  least.  He  thought 
when  he  got  home  that  he  was  only  sorry  for  her;  he 
did  not  know  that  already  she  was  in  his  heart. 

"  I  am  twice  her  age ! " 

So  was  Harry  Calingford — more  than  that. 

"  I  shall  have  to  clear  out  before  I  make  a  damned  fool 
of  myself.  She  would  rather  talk  to  me  than  to  him, 
she  wants  gentle  handling,  with  her  quick  temper  and 
pride.  Of  course  she  is  proud.  They've  jockeyed  her 
into  it,  and  now  she'll  keep  her  word  at  any  cost."  Then 
he  saw  her  eyes  again — glorious  eyes,  but  puzzled.  "  I 
puzzle  her.  She  doesn't  know  what  to  make  of  me." 
He  smiled,  but  it  was  a  wry  and  fleeting  smile.  He  was 
conscious  of  quickened  heart-beat,  sudden  hunger,  an 
impossible  thrill  or  longing.  It  did  cross  his  mind  that 
he  was  falling  in  love  with  her,  but  he  dismissed  the 
intrusive  thought.  He  said  to  himself  again  that  he 
was  twice  her  age,  that  she  was  not  a  woman  at  all ;  he 
was  ashamed  of  the  visions  that  pursued  him. 

That    night — the    night    of    the    fancy-dress    ball — 


CONCERT    PITCH  51 

Manuella,  too,  slept  badly.  Why  had  she  promised  to 
marry  Lord  Calingf  ord  ?  She  could  not  think  how  it  had 
come  about.  She  had  no  feeling  at  all  for  him ;  he  was 
dull,  heavy,  uninteresting.  She  supposed  she  would  have 
to  marry  him  now,  but  shrank  dismayed  from  the  prospect, 
comforting  herself,  however,  by  remembering  her  wed- 
ding-day was  a  long  way  off;  there  was  always  a  possi- 
bility that  something  might  intervene.  She  was  sure  he 
found  her  dull  too ;  he  did  not  seem  to  care  at  all  for  her 
company.  She  thrust  him  from  her  mind  and  allowed 
Lord  Lyssons  to  take  his  place.  He  was  never  dull ; 
one  never  knew  what  he  would  say  next,  but  one  always 
wanted  to  hear.  It  seemed  to  her  that  she  was  never 
long  enough  with  him ;  something  or  somebody  always 
interrupted  them.  Supposing  she  had  been  going  to 
marry  him  instead  of  Lord  Calingford  ?  The  supposition 
made  her  redden  a  little  in  the  darkness,  under  the  bed- 
clothes. She  was  sure  she  would  never  have  felt  dull 
with  Lord  Lyssons. 

In  the  morning  two  things  happened,  bearing  a  relation 
to  each  other.  So  many  days  nothing  at  all  happened, 
but  on  this  day  there  were  two  co-related  circumstances. 

At  eight  o'clock  in  the  morning  a  letter  was  brought  to 
Manuella.  The  handwriting  was  strange  to  her;  she 
had  few  correspondents  but  her  school  friends;  theirs 
were  generally  foreign  letters,  and  this  was  English.  It 
might,  of  course,  be  an  invitation ;  it  was  not  sufficiently 
ornate  for  a  circular,  there  was  no  crest  nor  monogram 
on  the  envelope.  Invitations  and  circulars  generally  went 
to  Lady  Wagner,  but  this  might  be  an  exception.  She 
had  no  prevision  of  its  contents  when  she  opened  it; 
why  should  she  have  had  ? 

It  was  quite  a  long  letter,  and  she  read  it  through 
twice,  its  contents  being  difficult  to  master,  to  understand. 
She  did  not  know  such  things  happened  except  in  books. 
She  felt  humiliated ;  that  was  her  first  feeling  when  she 
had  mastered  the  contents  of  Milly  Leroy's  letter. 
Nothing  unclean,  shameful,  ugly,  had  ever  touched  her 
before.  She  was  for  destroying  it,  then  for  going  with  it 


52  CONCERT    PITCH 

to  her  father ;  but  she  was  ashamed.  That  was  what  she 
felt  most  definitely — shame.  As  if  she  would  have  taken 
another  woman's  husband  had  she  known !  She  could 
not  hold  the  letter  in  her  hand,  it  was  horrible  to  her. 
She  did  not  get  any  further  than  that  at  once ;  no  thought 
of  her  freedom  came  to  her,  or  rejoicing.  In  some  way, 
some  strange  way,  her  delicacy  and  modesty  were  out- 
raged. She  was  a  little  stunned,  but  through  it  she  felt 
that  a  great  indignity  had  been  put  upon  her.  Inside  she 
was  all  trembling  with  rage  and  scorn  and  indignation. 

She  put  off  her  morning  ride ;  her  father  or  stepmother 
must  act  for  her,  dissociate  her  quickly  from  this  hideous 
thing,  and  see  that  she  had  no  further  part  in  it. 

Whilst  she  was  suffering  upstairs,  sick  with  indignation 
and  humiliation,  Loetitia,  very  complacent  and  with  a 
fresh  stock  of  stale  phrases,  was  inditing  a  letter  of 
sympathy  to  her  future  son-in-law. 

"  It  is  with  the  deepest  sympathy  I  learn  the  sad  news 
of  your  dear  father's  passing  away.  Your  butler  has  just 
conveyed  it  to  my  major-domo  through  the  telephone, 
and  I  am  gratified  at  the  consideration  that  has  been 
shown  us.  I  will  break  it  to  Manuella  as  gently  as  possi- 
ble. Poor  child !  I  am  sure  she  will  share  your  grief. 
He  had  been  ailing  a  long  time,  but  the  end  was  sudden. 
May  I,  my  dear  Harry,  add  that  I  am  sure  you  will  grace 
the  high  position  to  which  you  have  been  called,  with  our 
child  by  your  side.  ..." 

She  scratched  that  out.  They  were  marrying  the  girl 
to  a  Duke,  not  tentative,  but  actual,  and  all  her  labours 
with  the  girl  would  be  rewarded ;  but  there  was  no  use 
pretending  she  would  be  a  fitting  helpmate  for  him. 
Manuella,  although  Lcetitia  endeavoured  now  to  ignore 
it,  was  far  from  satisfactory.  She  had  not  sufficient 
dignity,  she  lacked  cultured  conversation,  social  tact. 
It  was  natural  that  Lcetitia  should  reflect  what  a  very 
much  better  Duchess  she  herself  would  have  made.  She 
sighed,  recopied  the  letter,  and  finished  it  appropriately. 

Then  she  sent  for  Manuella. 

The  girl  came  quickly;  she  thought  her  stepmother 


CONCERT    PITCH  53 

had  heard.  Anger  was  now  the  predominant  feeling, 
increasing  anger,  against  the  writer  of  the  letter  and 
Lord  Calingford,  against  her  own  people  for  not  having 
known,  against  herself  for  having  promised  to  marry 
the  horrid  man. 

"  There  it  is." 

She  flung  the  letter  on  the  table.  Loetitia  looked  up, 
astonished,  from  the  one  she  had  just  sealed  and  was 
about  to  dispatch. 

"  There.  I  don't  want  to  touch  it.  I  suppose  you've 
had  the  same.  ..." 

"  Has  Lord  Calingford  written  to  inform  you  of  the 
sad  event  ?  " 

She  smiled — Loetitia's  famous  smile. 

"  I  forgot,  I  should  have  said,  has  his  Grace  written  ?  " 

"  She  wrote,"  the  girl  answered  sullenly. 

"  She !  The  Duchess !  I  am  surprised."  It  certainly 
seemed  a  lapse  in  etiquette. 

"That  woman.  ..." 

"  What  woman  ?  My  dear  child,  I  wish  you  could 
acquire  a  more  definite  method  of  expressing  yourself. 
What  is  this?" 

Something  she  read  in  the  girl's  face  made  her  take 
up  the  letter  Manuella  had  flung  down,  and  it  imme- 
diately arrested  her  attention.  A  pale,  indignant  colour 
stained  her  cheeks,  becoming  accentuated  in  her  thin 
nose  as  she  read  the  signature  at  the  end.  The  facts 
contained  in  it  were  not  as  new  to  Loetitia  as  they  were 
to  Manuella. 

"  What  a  disgraceful  letter !  An  outrageous  and  dis- 
graceful letter;  probably  not  one  word  of  truth  in  it; 
the  letter  of  a  shameless  woman." 

Manuella  was  standing ;  she  was  waiting  for  some  con- 
demnation of  the  man  whose  name  was  mentioned, 
watching  her  stepmother  as  she  read : 

"  /  have  two  children  by  him.  I  went  to  live  with  him 
before  his  eldest  brother  died;  he  was  only  the  second 
son;  he  promised  he  zvould  marry  me  as  soon  as  his 


54  CONCERT    PITCH 

father  died — swore  it  a  hundred  times.  Now  he  is  going 
to  throw  me  over  altogether.  I  wish  you  could  see  my 
little  boy;  he  is  the  image  of  him.  You  may  have  chil- 
dren, he  says  he  must  have  an  heir;  but  my  Harry  will 
always  be  his  eldest  son.  I've  been  crying  my  eyes  out 
over  it  for  days  before  I  made  up  my  mind  to  write  to 
you.  It's  cruel,  that's  what  it  is,  cruel;  I've  been  as  good 
as  a  wife  to  him,  never  looked  at  another  man  before  or 
since.  I've  got  a  little  girl  too,  not  three  years  old.  You 
can  come  and  see  us,  if  you  like — see  the  home  you  are 
breaking  up.  ..." 

The  rest  of  the  letter  was  in  the  same  strain.  It  alluded 
to  Harry  Calingford's  past,  to  many  things  of  which 
Manuella  was  in  ignorance. 

"  I  knew  he  wasn't  a  saint,  if  his  brother  had  not  died 
they  would  never  have  forgiven  him  that  Oxford  affair 
nor  taken  any  more  notice  of  him.  I  took  him  when  he 
was  dozvn  on  his  luck,  made  a  man  of  him.  They  said  he 
was  a  hopeless  drunkard,  but  he  has  drunk  nothing  to 
speak  of  for  the  last  six  or  seven  years.  I  tell  you,  he  is 
my  man;  I've  made  him.  I  haven't  been  living  on  him. 
I've  earned  enough  for  the  two  of  us;  I'd  have  danced 
my  toes  off  if  he  wanted  money.  I  don't  suppose  you 
know  what  it  is  to  love  a  man  like  that;  it  isn't  his  title  I 
care  about,  it's  him,  the  father  of  my  children.  ..." 

"  A  disgraceful  letter,"  Lcetitia  said  again,  and  after 
a  moment's  thought  she  went  on : 

"  My  love,  you  were  quite  right  to  bring  it  to  me.  The 
woman  must  be  dealt  with  severely ;  your  father  will 
take  it  up,  or  the  lawyers.  To  send  such  a  letter  to  a 
mere  girl !  But  these  creatures  are  all  alike,  they  have  no 
sense  of  shame.  Let  it  lie  there;  don't  touch  it.  Put 
it  out  of  your  mind."  She  waved  it  away  with  her  hand. 
Manuella  turned  from  pale  to  red.  "  I  have  other  news 
for  you !  " 

It  really  seemed  as  if  she  had  put  the  letter  out  of 
her  mind ;  it  lay  there  like  an  unclean  thing,  but  Lcetitia 


CONCERT    PITCH  55 

seemed  to  have  forgotten  it.  "  I  think  you  had  better 
sit  down;  it  has  been  a  shock  to  you.  This  letter,"  she 
held  up  the  one  she  had  written,  "  is  to  Harry,  to  your 
fiance ;  it  is  a  letter  of  condolence.  You  may  like  to  add 
a  line,  or,  better  still,  you  will  write  to  him  yourself. 
Harry,  our  poor  Harry,  has  lost  his  father.  Harry  is 
now  the  Duke  of  Banff.  You  look  quite  pale.  Shall  I 
ring  for  a  glass  of  wine  for  you  ?  I  do  not,  as  a  general 
rule,  approve  of  intoxicants  in  the  morning,  but  if  you 
think  you  would  like  it  ...  I  have  told  him  he  must 
not  grieve,  he  will  fulfill  the  high  position  to  which  he  has 
been  called." 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  about  that  letter  ?  " 

The  girl  was  going  to  be  tiresome,  Lcetitia  scented  it. 

"  You  had  better  lie  down  a  little,"  she  said  soothingly. 
"  We  won't  talk  about  this  dreadful  letter  any  more. 
It  is  of  Harry  we  must  think,  and  the  change  in  his 
circumstances.  Do  you  feel  equal  to  writing  him  a 
line,  or  shall  I  add  a  postscript?  .  .  .  Don't  look  so 
distressed  ...  of  course,  it  will  make  a  great  differ- 
ence." 

"  I  am  not  going  on  with  my  engagement." 

"  You  are  a  little  overwrought  just  now."  Lcetitia 
meant  to  be  very  gentle  and  very  tactful  with  her.  "  You 
must  really  not  attach  undue  importance  to  an  anonymous 
letter,  practically  an  anonymous  letter ;  for  as  far  as  I  can 
make  out,  the  woman  is  entitled  to  no  name,  no  name  at 
all.  I  understand  she  calls  herself  Leroy;  probably  she 
is  Smith,  or  Jones." 

"  You  knew  about  it  ?  " 

"  My  dear,  will  you  not  try  and  be  calm  ?  You  are 
always  so  emotional.  It  is  right  you  should  know  nothing 
of  such  things.  Young  men  will  be  young  men,  they 
are  exposed  to  great  temptations.  It  is  not  a  matter 
we  can  discuss.  If  you  will  be  guided  by  me,  you  will 
think  no  more  about  it.  You  must  not,  of  course,  ever 
allude  to  it  to  Harry.  ..." 

"  To  Lord  Calingford !  " 

"  The  Duke  of  Banff,"  she  corrected  gently. 


56  CONCERT    PITCH 

"  I  should  think  I  wouldn't.  I  shall  never  speak  to 
him  again." 

"  My  dear,"  she  smiled  leniently.  "  You  have  no  idea 
how  absurd  you  are  making  yourself." 

No  amount  of  soothing  or  lenient  smiles  met  the  occa- 
sion. Manuella  stormed  and  cried,  and  behaved,  so 
Lcetitia  averred,  outrageously. 

"  I'll  never  speak  to  him  again,  he's  a  disgusting,  de- 
grading, beastly,  horrid  man !  "  she  cried  violently,  talk- 
ing wildly  through  her  gasping  breath. 

"  You  don't  care,  you  don't  care  how  I'm  insulted, 
and  .  .  .  and  outraged.  How  dared  he?  how  dared 
he  ask  me  to  marry  him?  How  dared  you  let  me  say 
'  Yes  '  ?  " 


CHAPTER  V 

NOTHING  could  move  the  girl  from  the  attitude  she 
had  taken  up ;  neither  her  father's  arguments  nor 
Albert's  had  any  effect  upon  her.  To  discuss  the  matter 
at  all  was  extremely  difficult,  and,  as  Loetitia  said, 
Manuella's  obstinacy  was  inconceivable.  The  way  she 
persisted  in  declining  to  ignore  this  disreputable  person's 
appeal  was  thoroughly  unladylike,  and  showed  an  innate 
lack  of  refinement.  Loetitia  was  naturally  exasperated 
as  she  saw  herself  losing  the  opportunity  of  being  the 
stepmother  of  a  Duchess.  She  fought  as  long  as  she  was 
able  and  in  every  way  that  was  possible.  Manuella  did 
allow  herself  to  be  persuaded  to  do  nothing  until  after  the 
funeral.  Loetitia  thought  time  would  bring  her  to  a 
better  state  of  mind.  But,  before  sufficient  time  had 
elapsed,  the  very  day  after  the  funeral,  in  fact,  Lady 
Wagner  was  astounded,  humiliated,  she  said,  by  hearing 
that  the  new  Duke  had  written  to  Sir  Hubert,  with- 
drawing his  pretensions !  The  news  was  in  the  papers 
before  she  recovered  from  the  shock. 

The  marriage  arranged  between  His  Grace  the  Duke 
of  Banff  and  Miss  Wagner  will  not  take  place. 

It  stared  her  in  the  face  from  the  fashionable  column 
of  her  Morning  Post,  curt,  decisive,  the  overthrowal  of 
all  her  hopes. 

57 


58  CONCERT    PITCH 

It  may  be  imagined  that  Manuella's  position  in  the 
house  became  an  unpleasant  one.  Her  father  again 
ignored  her,  Albert  went  back  to  Oxford,  and  Lcetitia 
lost  no  opportunity  of  expressing  her  opinion  upon  the 
heinousness  of  her  conduct.  It  transpired  that  Manuella 
had  sent  Milly  Leroy's  letter  to  the  new  Duke  of  Banff, 
accompanied  by  one  of  her  own,  candid  and  characteristic. 

"  /  believe  every  word  she  says  is  true.  I  think  it  was 
hateful  and  disgusting  of  you,  and  I  will  never  see  or 
speak  to  you  again." 

Lord  Lyssons  heard  about  it  from  Harry  himself, 
strangely  enough.  The  Duke  had  the  honesty  to  say  to 
everybody  who  inquired  of  him  that  Miss  Wagner  had 
thrown  him  over,  not  he  her. 

"  I  don't  know  but  what  I'm  glad  to  be  out  of  it," 
was  his  comment.  "  It  was  like  being  in  a  damned 
kindergarten." 

It  was  understood  that  he  would  return  to  Milly,  even 
if  he  failed  to  regularize  her  position.  Something  in  her 
letter  may  have  touched  him.  He  always  knew  that 
Milly  cared  nothing  for  his  rank. 

Lord  Lyssons  displayed  so  much  interest  in  the  matter 
that  his  aunt,  who  was  not  a  very  observant  person, 
actually  became  aware  of  it.  He  was  restless,  inclined 
to  gossip,  in  and  out  of  Grosvenor  Square  continually. 

"  I  suppose  she  is  having  the  devil  of  a  time  with  that 
stepmother  of  hers,"  he  said  to  Lady  Sallust  on  one  of 
these  occasions. 

"  They  say  she  is  being  kept  on  bread  and  water, 
locked  up  in  her  room." 

"  Gone  back  to  the  eighteenth  century  ?  " 

"  I  saw  Lcetitia  yesterday.  She  is  very  touchy  about 
it.  Of  course,  it  is  a  dreadful  disappointment  to  her." 

"  Why  don't  you  ask  the  girl  to  come  here  for  a  bit. 
Ease  the  situation,  you  know ;  separate  them." 

"  Ask  her  here — to  stay  with  me  ?  " 

"  It  wouldn't  be  such  an  extreme  step,  would  it  ?  " 


CONCERT    PITCH  59 

"  It  is  quite  unnecessary." 

She  sat  very  upright  in  her  chair.  It  was  impossible 
to  misunderstand  what  he  was  asking  her.  "  If  you  are 
really  so  much  interested.  ..." 

"  You  are  not  going  to  repeat  that  unholy  proposition 
of  yours  ?  "  He  was  examining  one  of  the  miniatures, 
avoiding  her  eyes. 

"I  am,  indeed.    Why  should  you  go  to  Nigeria?" 

"  The  climate  suits  me." 

"  Don't  be  absurd,  it  is  a  dreadful  climate,  every- 
body says  so.  You  would  be  a  much  better  match  for  her 
than  Harry  Calingford  was,  I  told  you  so  before." 

He  had  made  up  his  mind  to  nothing.  Manuella  was 
no  longer  to  be  met  in  the  Row ;  Rosinante  and  he 
searched  for  her  in  vain. 

"  Lady  Wagner  has  taken  quite  a  special  dislike  to 
me." 

"  That  will  not  matter  at  all.  She  certainly  hates  her 
stepdaughter." 

He  brought  forward  other  objections,  of  which  not  the 
least  was  the  disparity  in  their  ages. 

Lady  Sallust  combated  all  the  scruples  he  set  up ;  there 
was  little  doubt  he  set  them  up  for  her  to  demolish. 
Yet  he  was  really  in  half  a  dozen  minds  about  coming 
forward  as  a  suitor  for  the  girl's  hand.  He  had  a  great 
dread  lest  she  should  be  forced  to  accept  him  as  she  had 
been  forced  to  take  Calingford. 

But  Lady  Sallust  was  urgent,  and  when  she  saw  he 
was  moved  by  the  relation  of  the  girl's  treatment  at  her 
stepmother's  hands,  she  used  all  the  force  of  it  for 
argument. 

"  It  is  really  not  only  of  you  I  am  thinking ;  the  girl 
is  evidently  unhappy,  and  being  kept  practically  in  con- 
finement, one  does  not  see  her  anywhere.  I  hear  she  is 
not  even  allowed  in  the  Row." 

That  was  true,  and  Waldo  knew  it.  But  he  did  not 
know  that  he  was  the  excuse. 

"  There  is  no  use  you  running  after  Lord  Lyssons," 
Loetitia  said  cruelly.  "  No  decent  man  would  look  at  you 


60  CONCERT    PITCH 

under  the  circumstances  of  your  broken  engagement; 
your  meddling-  in  a  gentleman's  private  affairs." 

Lcetitia  forgot  she  had  formerly  suggested  that  Lord 
Lyssons  was  running  after  Manuella  and  endeavouring  to 
compromise  her.  She  was  sure  now  that  the  girl  was 
running  after  him.  Manuella's  pride  and  sensitiveness 
were  both  hurt ;  her  stepmother  said  bitter  and  unfor- 
gettable things  to  which  she  sometimes  retorted  hotly, 
but  which  were  never  without  their  effect.  Her  spirits 
failed  under  the  treatment  she  was  receiving,  she  became 
glad  to  be  allowed  to  remain  in  her  own  room,  to  escape 
observation. 

Lady  Sallust  was  not  authorized  to  approach  Lady 
Wagner  on  her  nephew's  behalf,  but  she  nevertheless 
took  upon  herself  the  responsibility  of  sounding  her. 
The  failure  of  the  ducal  alliance  had  subdued  Lcetitia, 
too,  to  some  extent,  and  she  welcomed  Lady  Sallust's 
visit  with  ingratiating  warmth.  Lady  Sallust  employed 
circumlocution,  she  knew  the  way  to  gain  Lcetitia's  ear. 
She  spoke  casually  of  Banff,  and  his  undesirable  habits 
and  conditions,  and  very  warmly  of  Waldo. 

"  Banff  is  a  mushroom  to  Waldo,  as  you  know.  The 
one  is  the  ninth  duke,  and  the  other  the  twenty-first  earl 
— the  earldom  dates  from  1446.  Not  that  that  would 
count  with  you,  but  it  does  make  a  difference,  doesn't 
it?  I  understand  the  young  people  are  already  attracted 
towards  each  other.  Of  course,  it  is  early  days,  but  I 
suggest  they  should  be  given  an  opportunity  to  meet." 

Lcetitia  was  attracted  by  the  idea,  although  she  disliked 
what  little  she  had  seen  of  the  suggested  suitor.  She 
wished  to  get  the  girl  off  her  hands ;  she  did  not  wish  for 
her  happiness,  but  to  rid  herself  of  her.  Lady  Sallust 
made  it  clear  that  Lord  Lyssons  would  not  come  forward 
as  Harry  Calingford  had,  through  his  relatives  or  lawyers. 

"  He  is  attracted  by  the  girl ;  he  would  like  opportuni- 
ties to  meet  her,  to  become  better  acquainted  with  her." 

This  way  of  doing  things  went  against  the  grain  with 
Lcetitia.  She  was  genuinely  of  the  opinion  that  the 
more  anyone  saw  of  her  stepdaughter,  the  less  likely  he 


CONCERT   PITCH  61 

was  to  become  attached  to  her.  She  yielded  in  the  end, 
however,  because  the  girl  was  an  increasing"  vexation  to 
her,  and  such  a  marriage  would  leave  her  with  no  cause 
of  self-reproach. 

She  began  to  take  Manuella  out  again,  to  entertain 
and  be  entertained;  the  season  was  still  very  young. 
Lady  Sallust  begged  her  to  keep  the  matter  secret  between 
them,  to  await  events.  But  Lady  Wagner  only  partially 
fell  in  with  her  view.  Certainly  she  gave  Manuella  to 
understand  that  she  was  on  probation  with  Lord  Lyssons, 
that  he  was  sorry  for  her,  and  wished  to  see  if  it  were 
possible  for  him  to  replace  the  Duke.  She  managed  to 
poison  that  intercourse  to  which  she  agreed.  There 
was  an  ever-increasing  awkwardness  between  them,  the 
cause  of  which  Waldo  was  for  ever  wondering.  He 
feared  they  were  putting  pressure  on  her,  although  he 
had  made  no  proposal. 

He  was  invited  to  lunch  and  to  dinner  at  Stone  House, 
stiff  and  formal  meals,  in  which  he  had  little  opportunity 
for  private  talk.  Only  once  he  spoke  to  her  of  her  en- 
gagement; that  was  the  day  of  the  final  tie  of  the  Army 
Polo  Cup  at  Ranelagh,  about  a  fortnight  after  he  had 
begun  coming  to  the  house. 

He  lunched  at  Stone  House  and  drove  down  with  them 
afterwards  in  the  motor.  Lady  Wagner  made  the  third ; 
she  was  conscientious  as  a  chaperone,  perhaps  additionally 
scrupulous  because  of  that  idea  of  hers  that  the  less 
anyone  saw  of  Manuella  the  more  likely  she  was  to  retain 
his  esteem.  Waldo  noticed  Manuella  was  pale,  and 
thought  she  had  grown  thin,  too  thin ;  she  looked  de- 
pressed. He  recalled  the  girl  of  the  Channel  crossing, 
and  found  hardly  a  trace  of  resemblance.  Loetitia  would 
have  said  she  had  "  fined  down,"  Waldo  was  vaguely 
uneasy.  She  had  "  fined  down  "  to  breaking-point.  He 
disliked  Lady  Wagner  even  beyond  her  demerits.  This 
afternoon,  as  he  sat  opposite  to  them  both,  and  his  future 
mother-in-law  displayed  her  pleasing  smile  and  talked 
about  Society,  he  wanted  to  strangle  her. 

It  was  a  great  day  at  Ranelagh.    The  King  and  Queen 


62  CONCERT    PITCH 

were  coming1,  and  the  streets  were  lined  with  people.  A 
long  string  of  conveyances  impeded  the  Wagner  progress ; 
they  were  nearly  an  hour  getting  into  the  gardens.  All 
the  time  Loetitia  talked,  but  Manuella  remained  pale 
and  silent.  Waldo  wanted  to  know  what  ailed  her,  but 
any  attempt  he  made  to  question  her  was  frustrated 
by  Lady  Wagner's  incessant  pleasantry  and  social  gifts. 
She  exercised  them  all  for  his  benefit.  She  was  beginning 
to  know  the  value  of  the  alliance,  one  or  two  envious 
mothers  having  made  it  evident.  She  was  recovering 
from  her  disappointment,  and  was  less  antagonistic  in 
her  manner  to  Manuella.  It  was,  of  course,  unfortunately 
evident  that  she  had  no  aptitude  for  conversation,  and 
lacked  the  social  sense.  Loetitia  filled  up  all  the  gaps 
that  Manuella's  silence  left,  and  was  extraordinarily 
self-satisfied  in  her  mauve  dress,  and  her  too-youthful 
hat,  and  the  way  she  felt  she  was  improving  the  oc- 
casion, and  assisting  in  attracting  and  enchaining  Lord 
Lyssons. 

She  would  have  been  surprised  if  she  had  heard  his 
whisper  to  the  girl  when  at  last  they  were  walking  to- 
gether to  the  Polo  ground. 

"  I  say,  can't  we  manage  to  lose  her?" 

They  did  manage  it,  but  not  until  much  later,  after 
they  had  walked  about,  sat  and  watched  a  dull  match, 
when  they  were  at  tea  together,  and  his  endurance  came 
suddenly  to  an  end.  Then  Hamel,  the  flying  man,  made 
a.  diversion.  Everyone  rushed  to  the  ground  where  his 
descent  would  take  place.  Lady  Wagner  decorously  kept 
her  seat  at  the  tea-table,  and  wondered  where  they  were 
all  going,  what  was  happening.  But  Waldo,  seizing 
Manuella  by  the  arm,  hurried  her  away. 

"  They  are  going  to  see  him  come  down.  Come  along, 
I  know  the  way.  We  must  cross  the  grass." 

"  Didn't  I  do  that  well  ?  "  he  asked,  when  they  were 
out  of  sight  and  hearing. 

But  Manuella's  answering  smile  and  manner  lacked 
something  of  spontaneity.  She  might  have  been  talking 
in  her  sleep,  so  little  animation  did  she  show. 


CONCERT    PITCH  63 

"  You  haven't  taken  a  dislike  to  me  by  any  chance  ?  " 
he  asked  lightly.  He  did  not  expect  an  affirmative  an- 
swer. His  heart  contracted  suddenly  when  he  saw  her 
hesitation  contracted  to  pain. 

"  Have  I  done  or  said  anything  to  annoy  you  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no,  of  course  not,"  she  spoke  quickly. 

"  I'm  sure  I  have.  You  are  quite  different  to  me  from 
what  you  used  to  be.  We  were  going  to  be  friends.  .  .  ." 

He  spoke  quickly,  he  was  hurrying  her  out  of  the 
crowd,  in  the  opposite  direction  to  the  place  of  the  air- 
man's descent,  but  he  was  not  too  hurried  to  note  the 
vagueness  of  her  response,  her  unwillingness. 

"  Ought  we  to  be  going  away  like  this  ?  She  has  not 
anyone  with  her,  and  does  not  like  being  left  alone.  I 
don't  think  she  has  finished  her  tea.  ..." 

"  I  don't  know  what  she  has  done  with  her  tea.  But  I 
know  she  has  nearly  finished  me.  Here  we  are.  Never 
mind  Hamel,  let  us  watch  the  croquet,  the  hoops  are 
quite  in  order."  There  were  two  chairs  under  a  tree, 
the  ground  was  deserted.  "  You  need  not  talk,  and 
for  Heaven's  sake  don't  be  polite,  or  mark  your  periods, 
or  speak  the  Queen's  English.  Be  slangy,  be  vulgar,  be 
anything  but  refined,  or  pleasing,  or  agreeable.  Heavens  ! 
what  a  woman !  No  wonder  your  father  suffers  from 
indigestion !  " 

He  made  her  smile.  It  was  then  he  asked  her  again 
what  had  ailed  her,  or  if  she  had  taken  a  dislike  to  him. 
He  knew  she  was  no  longer  at  ease  with  him,  and  he 
wanted  to  get  back  to  the  old  footing. 

"  I  wonder  what  has  become  of  that  red  blouse  I 
saw  you  in  first?  You  wouldn't  fill  it  out  as  well  as 
you  did  then."  He  was  eyeing  her;  she  thought  he 
was  finding  fault.  It  was  the  fashion  to  find  fault  with 
her. 

"  I've  grown  thinner." 

She  always  flushed  easily,  and  if  this  time  she  flushed 
angrily  he  liked  it  better  than  her  unnatural  quiet.  He 
began  to  tease  her  purposely,  as  he  used,  to  call  her 
"  Alice  in  Shadowland,"  and  complain  that  soon  there 


64  CONCERT    PITCH 

would  be  nothing  left  but  her  smile.  He  said  she  was 
like  the  Cheshire  cat,  only  with  her  it  would  be  her  large 
eyes'  that  remained.  He  talked  lightly,  but  his  heart 
was  tender  from  the  pain  of  that  sudden  contraction  when 
she  had  hesitated  in  answering  him.  There  was  no  reason 
for  it.  Nothing  had  come  between  them. 

"  You  are  letting  me  do  all  the  talking,"  he  complained. 
"  I  believe  your  stepmother  is  quite  right.  She  told 
me  to-day  in  her  pleasant  way  that  she  was  afraid  I 
should  find  you  a  poor  companion." 

She  flamed  out  at  that: 

"  She  hates  the  sight  of  me,  and  thinks  everyone  else 
must ! " 

"  Well,  you  know  I  don't,  not  entirely !  "  Then,  in 
slightly  more  serious  tone,  he  added : 

"  Is  that  all  that  is  the  matter  with  you,  your  step- 
mother and  her  phrases  ?  A  fortnight  or  so  ago  I  thought 
it  was  Harry  Calingford.  Now  I  am  a  little  at  sea.  It 
isn't  me,  by  any  chance,  is  it?  I  can't  bear  you  to  be  so 
unhappy." 

He  had  asked  her  for  nothing,  put  forward  no  claim. 
He  did  not  mean  to  give  them  any  pretence  for  putting 
pressure  upon  her. 

She  resented  his  curiosity,  and  did  not  want  him  to  pity 
her.  Lcetitia's  phrase  that  she  was  "  on  probation  "  with 
him  festered  in  her. 

"  There  is  nothing  the  matter  with  me,"  she  said 
shortly. 

"  And  you  have  not  taken  a  dislike  to  me  ?  To  my 
eyeglass,  for  instance,  or  anything  about  my  clothes? 
Albert  was  telling  me  he  thinks  I  ought  to  change  my 
tailor  and  go  to  his." 

Then  again,  moved  by  some  unknown  fear  or  mis- 
giving, but  more  fearful  still  of  showing  her  his  anxiety, 
he  asked : 

"  Anyone  put  you  against  me  ?  " 

"  No." 

It  was  Lord  Lyssons'  great  misfortune  that,  when  he 
felt  most  he  could  speak  least. 


CONCERT   PITCH  65 

"  Not  hankering  after  the  Duke  by  any  chance,  are 
you?  You  never  told  me  how  you  got  rid  of  him,  by 
the  way.  ..." 

She  could  not  bear  to  speak  of  it.  Her  stepmother 
said  she  had  behaved  in  an  unladylike  manner.  She  felt 
wildly  the  possibility  that  Lord  Lyssons  thought  so,  too, 
and  more  wildly  that  perhaps  he  had  things  like  this 
in  his  own  life,  women.  He  wanted  perhaps  to  know  if 
she  minded.  It  was  hateful,  hateful  of  him.  He  was 
trying  to  find  out  if  he  liked  her  well  enough  to  marry 
her.  She  did  not  want  to  marry  him  or  anybody.  At 
that  moment  she  thought  she  did  not  even  like  him  any 
more. 

But  she  changed  her  mind  just  as  suddenly  when  he 
put  his  hand  over  hers  and  spoke  softly : 

"  Never  mind,  I  was  only  teasing,  I  don't  want  to 
know.  I  am  sure  you  were  more  than  right.  Do  you 
think  I  ought  to  have  told  you,  given  you  a  hint?  Is 
that  why  you  are  angry  with  me?  I  wanted  to  do  it, 
but  I  couldn't.  You  might  have  thought  I  was  speaking 
in  my  own  interests." 

She  looked  at  him  quickly,  and  he  saw  in  her  surprised 
eyes  that  she  had  never  even  suspected  such  a  thing. 
He  answered  the  surprise  in  her  eyes  with  something 
very  like  complete  candour. 

"  Well,  it  came  to  that,  it  very  nearly  came  to  that — 
that  evening  at  the  fancy-dress  ball.  I  suppose  you  don't 
happen  to  remember  how  beautiful  you  looked,  and  how 
unhappy.  Why  don't  you  begin  to  look  happy  ?  You  are 
free  now."  His  hand  tightened  over  hers  and  he  went 
on  :  "  You  know  you  are  absolutely  free,  don't  you  ?  It 
is  going  to  be  just  as  you  like;  they  have  not  told  you 
differently,  have  they?  I  am  half  a  hundred  years  too 
old  for  you.  ..." 

"  Oh,  no !  "  she  exclaimed  impulsively,  then  flushed 
and  wished  she  had  not  said  it.  He  kept  his  hand  over 
hers. 

"  You  are  sure  I  am  not  too  old,"  he  said  gently. 

She  had  no  way  of  answering  him,  nor  knowledge  of 


66  CONCERT   PITCH 

what  she  might  say.  She  did  not  care  how  old  he  was, 
nor  had  she  ever  given  his  age  a  thought. 

"  It's  only  because  you  pity  me." 

What  was  only  because  he  pitied  her  ?  He  had  not  said 
anything.  She  hurried  on : 

"  I  want  to  be  left  alone,  I  don't  want  to  be  questioned 
and  talked  over."  She  was  almost  incoherent. 

"  I'm  not  talking  you  over,  I  have  never  talked  you 
over.  Be  fair  to  me." 

"  My  stepmother  says "  But  she  could  not  tell 

him  what  her  stepmother  said ;  she  reddened  and  stopped 
short,  digging  the  ferrule  of  her  parasol  into  the  turf. 
His  hand  still  lay  over  hers,  confusing  her. 

"  I  know  it  is  only  because  you  pity  me,"  she  said 
futilely. 

"  Shall  I  have  more  reason  to  be  sorry  for  you  if  I  take 
Harry  Calingford's  place,  do  you  think  ?  " 

"  You  don't  really  want  me." 

"  I  could  do  with  you,"  he  answered  whimsically. 

"  I  did  think  we  were  going  to  be  friends ;  you  said  we 
were." 

"  I  am  not  saying  anything  different,  am  I  ?  You 
remind  me  of  the  woman  in  the  police-court  the  other 
day.  '  Oh,  no,  sir,  'e  don't  often  knock  me  about ;  'e's 
more  like  a  friend  than  a  'usband.'  Come,  think  it  over. 
You  are  not  going  to  be  hurried." 

"  I  don't  want  to  be  married  out  of  pity." 

"  You  won't  be,  I  promise  you  that,"  he  said  quietly, 
almost  under  his  breath. 

And  then  her  troubled  eyes  sought  his,  and  what  she 
read  in  them  made  her  drop  her  own  quickly.  Neither 
of  them  spoke  for  quite  a  long  time;  until  he  took  his 
hand  from  hers,  and  began  to  talk  easily  of  what  was 
happening  in  front  of  them.  The  excitement  of  Hamel's 
descent  was  over,  and  people  came  back  over  the  grass 
in  twos  and  threes  and  little  groups ;  the  croquet  players, 
mallets  in  hand,  took  their  places  again. 

"  Are  you  interested  in  croquet  ?  This  ought  to  be  a 
good  game,  we  had  better  stay  and  watch  it.  I'll  lay 


CONCERT    PITCH  67 

six  to  one  on  the  man  with  the  Panama  hat,  there  is  a 
deadly  earnestness  about  him.  Look  at  his  chin ;  he  has 
a  tournament  chin." 

Before  he  got  through  what  he  had  to  say  about  the 
croquet,  Lady  Wagner  sailed  in  sight. 

"  Oh !  there  you  are.  I  have  been  looking  everywhere 
for  you.  The  King  and  Queen  are  just  going;  we  ought 
to  be  moving  too.  You  know  we  have  the  opera  to-night, 
and  the  reception  at  the  Foreign  Office." 

Other  people  joined  them,  and  there  was  talk  of  the 
polo,  the  flying,  the  croquet.  They  did  not  speak  again 
to  each  other.  He  excused  himself  from  driving  back 
with  them,  and  Manuella  was  glad  of  it.  She  felt  very 
agitated,  excited ;  he  seemed  to  have  told  her  something 
strange,  new,  wonderful,  incredible,  something  that  made 
her  pulses  beat  irregularly.  She  drove  back  in  absolute 
silence,  feeling  no  resentment  when  Loetitia  said  icily : 

"  It  is  a  pity  you  lack  sprightliness,  aplomb.  I  fear 
Lord  Lyssons  considers  you  but  a  poor  companion,  and 
prefers  to  seek  more  agreeable,  more  lively,  society.  I  do 
my  best,  but  you  give  me  no  assistance — no  assistance  at 
all,  when  I  try  to  draw  you  into  the  conversation." 


CHAPTER  VI 

IF  during  the  days  that  followed  Manuella  was  in  a 
tumult  of  feelings,  and  understood  none  of  them, 
Loetitia's  vigilant  chaperonage  may  have  been  partly 
responsible.  Waldo  thought  he  had  told  her  what  he 
had  to  say,  and  that  she  would  make  up  her  mind  in 
due  time ;  he  had  promised  she  should  not  be  pressed 
or  hurried.  For  himself  he  was  content  to  wait,  more 
than  content.  He  cancelled  his  passage  to  Nigeria,  and 
took  rooms  in  the  "  Albany."  He  was  living  in  them 
when  the  great  entertainment  took  place  at  Stone  House. 

Even  in  those  days  of  elaborate  entertainments,  lavish 
expenditure  on  flowers  and  food,  on  music  and  the 
engagement  of  great  artists,  the  reception  given  at  Stone 
House  was  spoken  of  as  promising  to  be  unique.  It  was 
the  Wagners'  first  season  in  Stone  House,  and  Loeritia 
meant  to  make  it  memorable.  Although  she  had  hoped 
for  a  ducal  alliance  for  her  stepdaughter,  she  was  be- 
coming satisfied  with  the  one  in  sight. 

Stone  House,  thrown  open  for  the  first  time  on  this 
occasion,  and  resplendent,  was  found  to  have  had  all 
the  embellishment  lavished  upon  it  that  the  imagination 
of  the  most  glorified  upholsterer,  with  Sir  Hubert's  bank- 
ing account  to  enliven  it,  could  contrive.  The  hall  was  of 
blue  marble,  enriched  with  golden  mouldings.  From 
fluted  columns  of  this  same  marble,  drawn  from  a  quarry 
in  South  America,  exploited  for  the  purpose,  and  new 

68 


CONCERT    PITCH  69 

to  the  cognoscenti,  the  great  staircase  rose,  leading  to 
billiard-room,  banqueting-hall  and  picture-gallery. 

The  banqueting-hall  was  of  cedar  wood  and  silver,  the 
design  of  the  ceiling  copied  from  one  of  the  rooms  in  the 
Doge's  Palace  in  Venice.  Cunning  employment  of  electric 
light  turned  the  silver  to  rose  grey,  and  silver  and  rose 
deepened  in  the  tone  of  the  carpet,  specially  woven  for  the 
hall.  Lady  Wagner  would,  of  course,  have  preferred 
gold  to  silver  in  the  enrichment  of  the  ceiling,  but  yielded 
to  expert  advice. 

On  this  great  night  thirty  people,  among  whom  was 
Lord  Lyssons,  sat  down  to  dinner  under  the  cedar  and 
silver  ceiling.  A  prince  of  the  blood  sat  by  Lcetitia's  side. 
He  was  only  Prince  Basil  Francis  of  Helstig-Scholstein, 
but  to  Loetitia  it  was  sufficient  that  he  was  Royalty.  He 
was  known  to  be  musical,  and  the  concert  after  the 
dinner  had  been  arranged  for  his  edification.  The  knowl- 
edge of  how  much  money  it  was  to  cost,  that  every 
performer  was  a  star,  sustained  Loetitia  through  the 
dinner. 

Prince  Basil  Francis  of  Helstig-Scholstein  was  very 
poor,  and  unusually  stupid,  even  for  a  prince.  He  did  not 
know  why  he  was  here,  but,  then,  he  very  seldom  knew 
why  he  was  anywhere.  Nevertheless,  he  said  the  right 
things  to  his  hostess;  he  had  said  them  so  often  before 
that  they  came  quite  easily  to  him.  It  was  unfortunate 
that  it  was  June,  and  there  were  no  luxuries  out  of  sea- 
son. A  year  ago,  in  March,  in  their  hired  house  in  St. 
James's  Square,  when  the  American  Ambassador  dined 
with  them,  there  had  been,  to  eclipse  the  freak  dinners  of 
fable  or  America,  an  immense  effort  made  to  induce  a 
couple  of  tame  plovers  to  lay  prematurely,  and  apparently 
the  Wagner  money  had  proved  too  great  a  temptation. 

But  to-night  there  was  no  eccentricity,  wiser  counsels 
having  prevailed.  Of  course,  the  asparagus  was  of  the 
giant  variety,  the  strawberries  British  Queens,  and  the 
wines  of  unexceptionable  vintage.  The  Prince's  appetite 
was  likewise  remarkable,  kolossal,  in  the  language  of 
his  fatherland.  He  even  asked,  and  Loetitia  looked  upon 


70  CONCERT    PITCH 

it  as  a  command,  that  one  dish — canard  with  a  mousse  of 
foie  gras — should  be  handed  again.  Loetitia  was  highly 
gratified,  if  secretly  surprised.  She  had  a  vague  idea 
that  a  small  appetite  was  a  sign  of  good  birth. 

After  dinner  she  stood  at  the  head  of  the  splendid 
staircase,  in  grey  satin  and  grey  wig,  diamond  tiara,  im- 
mense pearls,  and  dignity,  to  receive  the  guests  that  were 
coming  for  the  concert  and  supper.  There  was  no  crush 
— there  could  not  be  a  crush  in  Stone  House — but  every- 
one who  was  anyone  came.  The  Duke  and  Duchess  of 
Balderstone,  the  old  Dowager,  the  Fallowfields ;  the 
Honourable  Gilbert  Talbooth,  with  long  hair  and  the  rep- 
utation of  a  poet;  Lord  Chetwode,  with  neither  hair  nor 
reputation ;  Lords  and  Ladies ;  the  Inchestres,  the  Thesils ; 
debutantes  and  dowagers,  old  stagers  and  young.  Some 
were  amused  at  finding  themselves  here,  and  said  so, 
almost  under  the  eyes  of  their  hostess.  As  a  matter  of 
fact,  one  was  here  because  the  other  was ;  they  were  only 
sheep,  Lady  Sallust  being  the  bell-wether.  The  engage- 
ment between  Lord  Lyssons  and  the  only  daughter  of  the 
house  was  not  yet  announced,  but  it  was  in  the  air. 
Manuella  was  by  her  stepmother's  side  at  the  top  of  the 
stairs. 

The  picture-gallery  was  even  more  superb  than  the 
banqueting-hall ;  the  very  walls  were  gold,  and  golden, 
too,  the  domed  ceiling ;  only  the  pictures  broke  the  Midas 
charm.  They  were  reputed  old  masters,  and  prodigious 
prices  had  been  paid  for  them.  Here  the  blue  of  the 
Virgin's  gown  caught  the  eye,  and  there  the  gold  of  the 
Child's  halo  outshone  the  gold  of  walls  and  ceiling.  But, 
for  the  most  part,  it  was  the  frames  that  stood  out 
conspicuously  upon  the  walls. 

To-night  there  was  a  platform,  with  footlights,  and  a 
grand  piano  at  the  end  of  the  gallery.  Powdered  foot- 
men handed  satin  programmes.  An  arm-chair,  gilded  and 
cushioned,  was  provided  for  the  Prince,  and  a  similar 
one  beside  him  for  Lady  Wagner.  All  the  chairs  were 
gilded,  but  these  were  the  only  two  with  arms.  Waldo, 
coming  up  late  from  the  dinner-table,  had  some  difficulty 


CONCERT    PITCH  71 

in  finding  Manuella  among  the  crowd.  He  whispered  to 
her  in  a  ribald  manner  that  a  bed  or  sofa  would  be  better 
than  a  chair  for  Prince  Basil  Francis. 

"  He  is  somnolent  with  satiety  and  champagne.  I  bet 
you  half  a  dozen  pairs  of  gloves  he  is  asleep  before  the 
Trio." 

It  was  by  the  Prince's  wish  that  the  Tschaikowsky 
"  Trio  "  was  to  be  played.  Lyssons  had  laughed  when 
he  heard  this,  for  the  intimation  of  His  Highness's  wishes 
came  from  the  impresario  who  arranged  the  concert. 

The  "  Trio  "  was  the  most  incongruous  item  on  that 
satin  programme,  which  in  itself  was  even  more  amazing 
than  the  distinguished  names  implied;  not  a  number 
cost  less  than  three  figures,  and  it  was  rumoured  that 
the  "  Trio  "  ran  into  four !  Certainly  Steinhault  was 
playing,  and  he  had  never  before  been  heard  in  a  private 
house  in  England. 

It  was  to  be  performed  after  supper.  This  had  been 
arranged  with  the  view  of  keeping  the  Prince  in  Stone 
House  as  long  as  possible.  People  would  be  coming  and 
going  all  the  time,  and  Loetitia  wished  that  everyone 
should  see  him  there.  Here  is  the  programme.  Its 
significance  will  be  seen  later. 

PART  I 

1.  Pianoforte  Solo  Barcarolle  Chopin. 

PAUL  STEINHAULT. 

2.  Song  "  Un  bel  di  vedremo  "  Puccini. 

(Madame  Butterfly) 
MADAME  LIEBIUS. 

3.  Dance  MADAME  PALESTRINA. 

(By  the  courtesy  of  the  Manager  of  the  Palace  Theatre.) 

4.  Recitation  from  "LaGlu"  Jean  Richepin. 

MADAME  YVONNE  COLBERT. 

PART  II 

I.  Sea  Pictures  (a)  "  Where  Corals  lie "  Elgar. 

(b)  "The  Raven" 

MADAME  CLARA  CUE. 


72  CONCERT    PITCH 

2.  Trio  "  Trio  in  A  Minor "  Tschaikowsky. 

MM.   JACQUES  ZEISLER,   PAUL  STEINHAULT 
and   ISIDOR  VESCI. 

3.  Song  "Si,  mi  chiamano  Mimi  "  (La  Boheme)  Puccini. 

MADAME  LIEBIUS. 

4.  Violin  Solo  Introduction  and  Rondo 

Capriccioso  Saint-Saens 

HERR  ZEISLER. 

Palestrina  was  the  greatest  of  all  Russian  dancers. 
Yvonne  Colbert  had  come  from  Paris  for  this  one  en- 
gagement only  at  a  phenomenal  fee.  The  two  great 
cantatrices,  Madame  Liebius  and  Madame  Clara  Cue, 
had  never  previously  sung  together  at  a  concert.  Zeisler 
and  Vesci,  incomparable  violinist  and  renowned  violon- 
cellist, stood  alone  each  in  his  class. 

Paul  Steinhault !  Paul  Steinhault  is  the  pianist  be- 
fore whom,  according  to  the  very  latest  audacity  in 
musical  criticism,  Paderewski  is  a  mere  amateur,  and 
Rubenstein  was  but  a  tinkler  on  the  keys.  The  whole  of 
musical  London  was  agog  to  hear  him,  but  he  had  always 
refused  to  appear  in  a  country  that  had  allowed  a  Davison 
to  malign  a  Wagner.  It  is  possible  he  thought  the  South 
African  millionaire  was  a  relative  of  the  Divine  Master, 
and  that  so  he  was  assisting  at  a  great  festa  of  reparation. 
It  is  also  possible  that  he  could  not  withstand  the  fee. 

The  Prince  settled  himself  in  the  gilded  and  cushioned 
chair,  and  Lady  Wagner  took  her  place  beside  him. 
Seats  were  found  for  lesser  people ;  there  was  a  rustle  of 
programmes  and  silken  dresses,  with  buzzing  of  talk  and 
exclamation.  This  was  to  be  like  no  other  concert. 

The  impresario  was,  however,  the  first  performer  to 
appear.  He  came  on  to  the  platform  and  made  a  little 
speech : 

"  Your  Highness,  Ladies  and  Gentlemen.  ..." 

It  appeared  that  Steinhault  had  not  yet  arrived.  Herr 
Zeisler  would  therefore  give  the  first  item. 

In  another  minute  Zeisler,  thickset  and  plebian  in 
appearance,  but  smiling  and  assured,  stood  before  them. 


CONCERT    PITCH  73 

How  lovingly  he  adjusted  the  strings,  caressing  them 
almost.  Under  his  fat,  stumpy  fingers  the  music  danced 
and  sang,  cried  and  laughed  lightly.  What  a  genius  the 
man  was !  The  Prince  said  so,  and  led  the  applause. 

Lord  Lyssons  was  not  musical,  and  to-night  he  could 
think  of  nothing  but  Manuella.  In  truth,  she  looked 
beautiful ;  on  her  slender  girlish  neck  the  lovely-shaped 
head,  with  its  coronal  of  dark  hair,  rose  gracefully.  She 
had  little  colour,  and  even  her  lips  seemed  pale;  but 
without  colour  her  contours  seemed  more  exquisite,  the 
small  cleft  chin,  the  thin  bow  mouth,  the  delicate  nose. 
The  lashes  lay  shadowy  on  her  ivory  cheeks,  underneath 
them  her  eyes  were  darkly  brilliant. 

"  You  can't  want  to  listen ;  come  away  and  talk." 

"  Can't  want  to  listen  !     Why,  it's  Zeisler !  " 

Manuella  loved  music;  once — a  thousand  years  ago 
it  seemed  now — she  had  wanted  to  be  a  great  singer.  At 
Fontainebleau  her  singing  master  said  she  had  a  wonder- 
ful voice.  It  was,  however,  not  only  because  she  was 
musical,  and  wanted  to  hear,  not  merely  Zeisler,  but 
Madame  Liebius  and  Clara  Cue,  that  she  stayed  where 
she  was. 

An  extraordinary  shyness  of  Lord  Lyssons  had  come 
upon  her  now ;  she  was  for  ever  conscious  of  him,  of  his 
presence  in  a  room,  his  presence  in  her  thoughts;  but 
she  evaded  the  knowledge  that  was  knocking  at  her 
heart. 

Supper  was  served  at  small  tables  between  the  two 
parts  of  the  concert.  Now  everybody  was  eating  lobster 
in  aspic,  quail  or  truffled  chickens,  drinking  champagne 
or  hock ;  there  was  a  rattle  of  glasses  and  plates,  with  the 
hum  and  buzz  of  talking.  It  was  perhaps  only  Waldo 
who  noted  a  man  approach  and  whisper  something  in 
Sir  Hubert's  ear.  Manuella  was  at  her  father's  table 
with  the  wizened  ambassador  who  stood  next  to  the 
Prince  in  distinction.  And  where  Manuella  sat  or  stood, 
there  were  Lord  Lyssons'  eyes. 

Sir  Hubert,  for  once  forsaking  regime,  was  eating  and 
drinking  like  an  ordinary  human  being,  talking,  too,  and 


74  CONCERT    PITCH 

at  ease.  But  that  which  was  whispered  in  his  ear  evi- 
dently annoyed  him ;  he  frowned  and  showed  impatience. 
Then  he  spoke  to  Manuella,  who  left  her  chair  and  the 
room,  evidently  at  his  request.  Waldo  followed  her;  he 
had  not  yet  sat  down  to  supper. 

"  Anything  the  matter  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Steinhault  has  not  come,  there  is  no  one  for  the 
piano,  and  they  don't  know  what  to  do  about  the  Trio. 
You  know  it  was  by  Prince  Basil's  special  request.  I 
am  to  go  up  to  the  artists'  room,  to  try  and  arrange 
something.  ..." 

"  By  the  time  the  Prince  has  finished  supper  I  don't 
believe  he  will  know  one  tune  from  another.  Come 
and  talk  to  me  instead ;  I  haven't  had  a  word  with  you 
for  ages." 

"  Don't  call  the  Trio  a  '  tune.'  "  She  tried  to  speak 
flippantly,  but  her  nervousness  was  apparent,  and  her 
desire  to  escape  from  him. 

"  I'll  call  it  what  you  like." 

"  Let  me  go,  I  must  do  what  father  wants." 

"  I  am  not  to  have  a  word,  then  ?  " 

"  After  supper ;  after  I've  seen  what  is  to  be  done ; 
after " 

"  I'll  take  it  out  of  you  one  day,  see  if  I  don't.  I'll 
talk  to  you  for  twenty-four  hours  without  stopping — 
thirty-six  if  you  are  not  good." 

He  wanted  to  keep  his  arm  about  her  waist,  and  look 
into  her  eyes  when  he  threatened  her,  to  see  them 
brighten,  darken,  fall  before  his  own.  But  there  were 
perspiring  butlers  and  hurrying  footmen  about,  and  he 
released  her,  and  returned  to  the  supper-room.  His 
heart  was  light;  he  did  not  think  he  would  have 
long  to  wait  now.  They  were  so  near  to  an  understand- 
ing. At  any  moment  now  there  might  leap  between  them 
the  word,  the  glance,  illuminating  them  to  each  other. 
Her  very  shyness  with  him  was  indicative  of  what 
was  happening,  that  she  was  awaking.  Love  was  a 
flame,  and  he  might  kindle  it  at  any  moment.  But 


CONCERT    PITCH  75 

she  was  so  young,  he  could  hardly  bear  that  she  should 
burn. 

"  Champagne,  my  lord?  "  He  found  himself  sitting  in 
her  vacant  place  beside  Sir  Hubert. 

"  In  a  tumbler,  and  a  large  piece  of  ice.  Glad  to  see 
for  once  that  you  are  indulging,"  he  said  to  his  future 
father-in-law. 

Sir  Hubert  surveyed  his  truffled  chicken  gloomily. 
"  I  expect  I  shall  have  to  pay  for  it  in  the  morning," 
he  said.  "  My  only  possible  chance  was  if  my  mind  had 
been  undisturbed  whilst  I  ate  and  drank.  Now  comes 
this  news.  I'm  sure  I  don't  know  why  Steinhault  hasn't 
come.  I  gave  him  his  own  terms.  I  shall  be  ill  to- 
morrow, very  ill." 

"  Perhaps  not.  And,  if  so,  it  will  be  in  a  good  cause," 
Waldo  answered  cheerfully.  "  I  should  go  the  whole  hog 
if  I  were  you,  since  you  have  started — lobster,  quail, 
peaches,  and  a  bottle  or  two  to  top  up  with.  You  may 
as  well  be  hung  for  a  Perigord  pie  as  a  lamb  cutlet,  as  the 
old  proverb  says.  As  for  the  programme  or  any  altera- 
tion, what's  the  odds?  Nobody  listens  to  music  after 
supper." 

"  The  Prince  wanted  to  hear  Steinhault  and  Zeisler 
together,"  Sir  Hubert  reiterated  irritably.  "  Manuella 
will  have  to  see  that  a  motor  is  sent  for  him." 

He  was,  however,  very  much  inclined  to  take  Lord 
Lyssons'  advice,  since  it  was  certain  he  would  be  ill 
anyway. 

"  I  have  heard  that  music  has  sometimes  a  very  extra- 
ordinary effect  on  the  digestion ;  they  have  been  making 
experiments — you've  heard  about  them,  I  suppose  ?  " 

Waldo  supped  to  an  obbligato  of  medical  details. 


CHAPTER  VII 

ON  the  threshold  of  the  artists'  room,  leading  from 
the  great  picture-gallery,  Manuella  paused.  It 
must  be  remembered  that  the  greater  part  of  her  youth 
had  been  passed  in  Germany,  where  music  has  its  home, 
is  understood,  revered,  invites  and  receives  homage. 
For  a  short  time,  never  to  be  forgotten,  she  had  been  en- 
couraged to  hope  that  she,  too,  might  one  day  be  an 
artist.  Tremulous  days  had  been  hers,  for  the  country 
that  music  opened  to  her,  with  the  language  that  music 
speaks,  had  ever  been  enchanted  land.  Since  childhood's 
days  she  had  heard  the  voices  of  fauns  and  fairies  on 
dappled  sward;  through  swaying  trees  and  sunlight 
Orpheus  had  played  to  her  intent  ears.  Sometimes  there 
had  been  thunder  and  lightning  in  that  enchanted  land, 
and  then  it  was  the  gods  who  spoke.  All  this  was  for  her 
dreams  alone,  and  never,  never  had  she  voiced  it  until 
one  day,  not  six  months  ago,  at  Fontainebleau  she  had 
sung  to  Monsieur  Lausan,  who  taught  only  the  first  class, 
and  who  had  declared  that  her  voice  was  wonderful,  and 
she  must  be  an  artist !  Two  months  of  Monsieur  Lausan's 
teaching,  of  high  hopes  and  glorious  excitement,  and  then 
the  summons  home,  the  imperative  peremptory  summons. 
It  seemed  so  long  ago  ...  so  impossible  she  could 
have  ever  hoped  to  be  a  singer. 

It   all   rushed   back   to   her,   those   exalted   days   and 
dreams,  as  she  stood  at  the  door  of  the  artists'  room, 

76 


CONCERT    PITCH  77 

almost  afraid  to  enter.  Zeisler  and  Liebius  and  Vesci 
were  there.  Something  from  the  past,  some  reverence 
or  memory,  made  the  intake  of  her  breath  quick,  and 
she  hesitated  on  the  threshold. 

She  saw  Zeisler  first — Zeisler,  whom  she  had  heard 
in  Germany,  and  idealized,  with  whom  she  and  all  her 
schoolfellows  had  said  they  were  in  love.  He  had  been  a 
doctor  and  then  a  soldier,  they  were  told,  but  always  a 
genius.  She  would  have  liked  to  make  a  reverence  to 
him ;  she  hardly  dared  to  look  him  in  the  face.  That 
little  fiddle  he  carried,  how  she  had  heard  it  speak  and 
sing !  There  was  no  one  like  Zeisler.  Again  she  was  in 
that  big  hall  in  Dresden ;  the  girls  in  their  white  dresses, 
tier  upon  tier  of  silent  people,  then  his  figure  on  the  plat- 
form, the  awkward  figure ;  the  violin  tuning  and  scraping, 
and  then  .  .  .  then  .  .  .  such  music  as  she  had  never 
heard,  only  dreamed.  ...  It  was  really  an  obeisance 
she  made  to  Zeisler,  and  not  a  formal  bow.  They 
saw  it,  those  artists,  and  their  hearts  went  out  to 
her. 

At  first  it  seemed  as  if  all  who  were  in  the  room  were 
talking  at  once,  and  she  could  not  make  out  what  was 
being  said.  Zeisler  was  the  calmest ;  he  was  not  satisfied 
with  one  of  his  strings,  and  tried  it  with  his  finger-nail, 
and  then  again,  testing  the  strings  all  the  time  the  others 
talked.  But  Isidor  Vesci  was  vociferous  and  excitable, 
and  Flockmann,  who  had  engaged  the  artists  for  the 
concert,  and  represented  the  firm  that  had  engaged 
them,  was  full  of  explanations  and  apologies,  and  could 
have  made  matters  clear  to  her  if  Vesci  had  not  screamed 
him  down. 

Zeisler  said  quickly,  as  if  to  himself  or  his  bow : 

"  But  like  this  they  will  never  make  her  understand." 

And  although  the  explanations,  half  in   Italian,   and 

all  in  chorus,  rose  and  rose  again,  it  was  a  few  minutes 

before  she  knew  what  had  happened ;  that  Steinhault, 

the  great   Steinhault,  had   not  only  not  come,  he  had 

neither  wired,  nor  written,   nor  telephoned !      Nothing 

had  been  heard  of  him  since  he  had  accepted  the  engage- 


78  CONCERT    PITCH 

ment  and  Flockmann  had  arranged  for  Zeisler  and  Vesci 
to  play  with  him. 

Vesci  was  gesticulative  and  violent.  He  would  not 
have  played  at  all  at  such  a  concert,  to  such  an  audience, 
if  it  had  not  been  for  Steinhault.  With  Steinhault  at 
the  piano  he  would  play  the  Tschaikowsky  Trio  here, 
anywhere,  and  even  forego  his  right  to  be  heard  in  a  solo. 
He  ignored  the  fact  that  he  was  to  have  two  hundred 
guineas  for  his  complaisance.  He  said  dreadful  things 
about  her  father's  guests,  who  had  moved  in  their  seats, 
who  had  even  rustled  their  dresses,  when  Zeisler  was 
playing  the  Rondo.  He  was  convinced  that  Steinhault 
had  seen  the  programme,  the  indefensible  programme,  and 
had  not  come  because  he  resented  being  set  down  to  open 
it;  he,  the  great  Steinhault,  to  commence  a  millionaire's 
private  concert !  So  he  abused  Flockmann. 

It  seemed  to  Manuella  as  if  everyone  in  the  artists' 
room  was  talking  at  the  same  moment,  and  that  most 
of  them  were  saying  the  same  thing;  only  Zeisler  went 
on  adjusting  his  strings,  humming  a  little  under  his 
breath.  And  a  vulgar  American  woman,  whom  she  heard 
afterwards  was  Madame  Vesci,  was  saying  louder  and 
more  often  than  all  the  rest,  that  the  Trio  could  not  be 
given  without  Steinhault,  that  Vesci  would  not  play  with 
anyone  else.  Flockmann  suggested  this  man  or  the  other 
being  sent  for — great  pianists,  all  of  them,  he  said,  as 
he  shrieked  their  names  at  Vesci,  ran  his  hands  through 
his  dishevelled  hair,  and  was  distractedly  watching  the 
door,  always  hoping  that  at  the  very  last  minute  Stein- 
hault would  arrive. 

Near  the  door  there  was  a  grand  piano.  Seated  on 
the  music-stool  was  a  young  man  who  touched  the  keys 
softly  all  the  time,  as  Zeisler  touched  his  strings,  saying 
nothing.  He  had  accompanied  Madame  Liebius  in  her 
song.  Manuella  remembered  his  head.  That  was  all  she 
had  seen  of  him,  although  she  was  musician  enough  to 
recognize  how  fine  an  accompanist  Madame  Liebius  had 
secured,  how  gently  his  fingers  caressed  the  keys,  how 
the  piano  supported  her,  rising  and  falling  with  the  voice, 


CONCERT    PITCH  79 

just  as  an  accompaniment  should  rise  and  fall,  deepen- 
ing values,  adding  richness,  never  obtrusive,  always 
subordinate. 

She  had  noticed  vaguely  that  it  was  a  fine  and  massive 
head,  crowned  with  hair  the  colour  of  ripened  corn. 
Now,  but  equally  vaguely,  she  was  surprised  to  see  how 
young  he  was,  little  more  than  a  boy.  His  small  ears  lay 
flat,  his  shoulders  were  a  little  bowed,  his  eyes  were  on 
the  keys. 

She  wished  all  the  others  were  not  talking  at  once. 
Flockmann  and  Vesci,  ignoring  her,  were  still  shouting 
at  each  other.  Only  Zeisler  played  with  his  fiddle,  and 
the  young  man  at  the  piano  touched  a  note  now  and  again 
in  accidental  harmony.  When  the  confusion  was  at  its 
height,  and  she  felt  her  intelligence  and  capacity  drown- 
ing in  the  noise,  he  ceased  fingering  the  piano,  and  swung 
himself  round  on  the  stool.  She  became  conscious  he 
was  speaking  to  her,  softly,  under  cover  of  the  noise. 

"  I  saw  you  in  the  audience,  did  I  not  ?  When  I  was 
playing  '  Un  bel  di  vedremo '  ?  You  love  music,  I  saw. 
After  that  I  played  it  for  you." 

"  For  me  !  " 

"  But,  of  course.  Now  I  want  to  play  the  Tschaikowsky 
Trio  for  you.  Will  you  tell  them  to  cease  wrangling, 
cease  talking,  and  I  will  play !  If  you  would  tell  them 
that.  ..." 

For  the  moment  she  was  uncertain  how  to  answer 
him ;  she  hesitated,  not  knowing  him,  nor  the  etiquette 
of  the  occasion. 

"  But  certainly  I  can  play  it,"  he  said  earnestly,  mis- 
reading her  hesitation. 

As  he  looked  at  her  she  saw  that  his  eyes  were  blue, 
and  in  the  middle  of  each  of  them  was  a  strange  light; 
afterwards  she  knew  it  was  the  light  of  genius.  Even 
now  she  saw  that  it  was  not  self-confidence  that  lit  them, 
for  that  is  a  small  and  feeble  thing ;  they  were  compelling 
eyes,  double-irised,  strange. 

"  I  can  play  it  for  them,  no  one  better ;  only  Steinhault 
can  play  it  as  well  as  I." 


8o  CONCERT    PITCH 

"  But  who  .  .  .  what  .  .  .  what  shall  I  tell  them  ?  " 

She  moved  nearer  the  piano,  by  now  the  dispute  be- 
tween the  two  men  was  hotter  and  more  vociferous  and 
no  one  heeded  her,  although  they  knew  she  was  here  to 
assuage  it. 

"  Tell  them  that  Harston  Migotti  will  play  the  Trio 
with  them." 

"  Will  they  know  .  .  .  will  they  be  satisfied  ?  " 

"  They  will  not  know,  perhaps.  Only  Madame  Liebius 
here  knows.  But  they  will  be  satisfied,  completely  satis- 
fied. I  promise  it  you.  Do  not  be  afraid,  tell  them." 

"  Now  ? " 

"  Yes.  Now !  It  does  not  matter  what  they  say ; 
afterwards  they  will  be  glad." 

It  was  a  strange,  a  difficult  position  for  her.  How 
could  she  say  it,  or  insist?  And  yet  he  impressed  her 
with  his  power,  with  his  conviction.  He  was  little  more 
than  a  boy,  two  or  three-and-twenty  at  the  most.  His 
face  was  as  smooth  as  a  girl's,  classic  in  its  fine  features 
and  sculptured  lines.  Her  hesitation  was  not  shared  by 
him. 

"  Go  on.  Say  it  to  them,"  he  urged,  smiling  at  her. 
"  Do  not  be  afraid." 

"  Herr  Zeisler,  Signer  Vesci." 

She  held  up  her  hand  to  ask  for  silence,  but  she  was 
pleading,  not  commanding,  as  perhaps  she  had  the  right. 
Because  she  had  curtsied  low  to  Zeisler,  not  at  all  because 
she  was  her  father's  daughter,  first  Vesci,  and  then  the 
others,  gave  her  the  opportunity  she  asked. 

"  I  want  you  to  allow  .  .  .  will  you  allow  this  gentle- 
man to  play  the  pianoforte  part  in  the  Trio  in  Herr 
Steinhault's  place?  It  is  Signer  Harston  Migotti.  .  .  ." 

There  fell  a  little  doubtful  hush  over  them,  and  it  was 
almost  a  moment  before  Vesci  repeated  the  name,  and 
Flockmann  after  him. 

"  Migotti  ? " 

"  Migotti  ?  " 

He  did  not  rise  from  the  stool,  but  swung  lightly  on  it, 
facing  them. 


CONCERT    PITCH  81 

"  Not  '  Signer.'  I  am  an  Englishman,"  he  corrected. 
She  had  made  the  opportunity,  and  now  he  spoke  for 
himself.  "  Since  Steinhault,  who  was  my  master,  is  not 
here,  I  will  play  the  Trio,  if  you  care  that  I  shall." 
He  spoke  confidently;  and  although  he  said  he  was  an 
Englishman  there  was  something  foreign  in  the  inflexion 
of  his  voice. 

It  was  a  difficult,  and  in  some  ways,  an  embarrassing 
position  for  the  girl.  Zeisler  looked  at  her  inquiringly, 
then  he  turned  to  the  boy  at  the  piano.  Vesci  continued 
to  talk  furiously,  and  Flockmann  seemed  too  astonished 
for  speech. 

"  I  have  never  heard  of  you,"  he  said,  after  a  pause. 

Migotti  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  No  ? "  he  said  laconically ;  and  for  no  apparent 
reason  he  smiled  again  at  Manuella,  as  if  she,  too,  must 
be  amused  at  that. 

"  Where  have  you  played  ?  You  have  never  been 
heard.  ..." 

"  Nevertheless,  I  can  play  the  Trio." 

He  rose  now,  and  one  saw  that  the  promise  of  the  head 
was  not  quite  carried  out  by  the  figure.  Like  Zeisler's, 
it  was  a  little  clumsy,  loose,  not  well-knit,  his  clothes 
were  ill-fitting. 

"  Would  I  say  it  if  it  were  not  true  ?  In  ten  minutes 
you  would  know.  I  will  play  it,  but  only  if  Herr  Zeisler 
and  Signer  Vesci  are  content,  and  Mademoiselle  wishes 
it."  He  was  certainly  not  pleading.  "  It  is  for  you  I 
will  play  it,"  he  said  again  to  Manuella. 

Now  it  seemed  that  Zeisler  was  listening  to  him.  And 
Zeisler,  moved  one  knows  not  by  what  impulse,  the  girl's 
doubting  eyes,  the  boy  with  his  Beethoven  head,  convic- 
tion, indifference,  or  merely  in  contradiction  of  Vesci's 
wife,  who  continued  to  scream  that  only  a  Steinhault, 
a  Paderewski,  or  a  Bauer  could  play  with  Vesci — said, 
quite  laconically,  as  he  took  out  a  new  string : 

"  Let  him  play ;  I  will  play  with  him." 

Vesci's  face  was  a  study.  Flockmann  threw  up  his 
hands.  Migotti  sat  down  again  on  the  piano-stool,  and 


82  CONCERT    PITCH 

Zeisler,  after  another  glance  at  him,  continued  to  tune  his 
violin. 

When  Manuella  left  the  artists'  room  she  became  again 
uncertain  of  the  wisdom  of  what  she  had  done. 

To  Lord  Lyssons,  to  whom  she  voiced  her  doubts,  it 
appeared  of  little  consequence  either  way.  She  told 
him  how  good-looking  the  boy  was,  and  that  he  had  a 
true  musician's  head.  He  rallied  her  about  him,  and  said 
there  was  no  doubt  his  good  looks,  or  that  "  light  in  his 
eyes  "  which  she  described,  had  made  a  great  impression 
upon  her. 

"  I'm  only  worried  because  of  Zeisler,  it  would  be 
so  awful  if  he  were  put  out.  Perhaps  I  ought  to  have  left 
it  to  Flockmann." 

"  I  meant  to  go  downstairs  and  have  a  smoke,  but  I 
shall  stay  here  instead,  and  support  you  if  there  is  a 
fiasco.  Did  you  say  Adonis  or  Julius  Caesar,  Beethoven 
or  Svengali?  Tell  me  some  more  about  your  find." 

He  rallied  her  lightly  at  first,  but  found  within  himself 
the  capacity  for  jealousy;  urging  her  to  come  away,  not 
to  bother  any  more  about  the  concert. 

"  He  has  one  of  the  most  beautiful  faces  I  have  ever 
seen." 

He  could  not  get  her  away  from  the  subject,  nor  from 
the  hall. 

"  I  must  hear  him ;  he  asked  me  to  stand  where  he 
could  see  me,  he  said  he  would  play  it  to  me." 

Although  music  bored  or  irritated  him,  Waldo  stayed. 
If  it  was  not  a  vague  and  reasonless  jealousy  it  was 
difficult  to  say  why  he  resented  her  interest  in  the 
Trio. 

Prince  Basil  Francis  had  eaten  to  repletion,  and  was 
somnolent,  as  Waldo  had  predicted,  but  did  not  suggest 
leaving,  as  Lady  Wagner  had  feared. 

"  Isn't  Zeisler  going  to  play  again  ?  I  must  hear 
Zeisler,"  he  said. 

And  Lady  Wagner  could  not  congratulate  herself  suf- 
ficiently on  having  secured  just  that  particular  musician. 
The  Prince  said  there  was  no  one  like  him;  he  often 


CONCERT    PITCH  83 

heard  him  in  Darmstadt.  Lady  Wagner,  holding  oh  to 
her  decorum  with  both  hands,  bemused  at  the  success  of 
her  party,  and  in  the  prim  intoxication  with  her  position, 
could  not  remember  what  instrument  Zeisler  played,  or  if 
he  perhaps  danced,  or  sang  in  a  "  new  ditty "  every 
evening.  That  was  a  most  improper  suggestion  that 
some  one  had  made  about  an  artiste,  a  "  nudity  "  every 
evening!  In  her  nervousness  she  had  almost  repeated 
the  jest  to  the  Prince,  but  recollected  herself  in  time. 
Her  satin  programme  told  her  Zeisler  was  the  name  of 
the  violinist.  Of  course,  they  would  never  have  engaged 
two  dancers  for  an  evening. 

Lady  Wagner,  back  in  her  upholstered  chair  by  the 
side  of  the  Prince,  waited  to  see  what  was  going  to 
happen  on  the  stage.  She  heard  there  had  been  a  dis- 
appointment about  the  Trio,  and  hoped  that  in  its  place 
someone  would  sing  an  English  song,  such  as  "  She  wore 
a  Wreath  of  Roses,"  or  "The  Better  Land."  Her 
extra  glass  of  champagne,  or  the  society  of  the  Prince, 
had  mounted  to  her  head.  Her  nose  was  a  little  pink 
under  the  diamond  tiara,  and  she  felt  sentimental. 

Prince  Basil  Francis  thought  she  was  a  bore.  He  said 
if  she  wished  to  be  with  her  other  guests,  perhaps  Miss 
Wagner  would  take  her  place;  she  was  not  to  feel  tied. 
He  had  an  eye  for  a  pretty  girl,  and  sometimes  wished 
modern  German  ideas  admitted  the  provision  of  a  harem 
for  the  younger  sons  of  the  royal  house.  Nevertheless, 
he  had  done  very  well  without  such  provision.  He  was  a 
little  sleepy  from  his  good  supper,  following  so  closely  on 
his  good  dinner.  But  Zeisler  was  always  worth  hearing. 

"  Let  them  begin.  Why  do  they  not  begin  ?  "  he  asked, 
and  added,  hardly  concealing  a  yawn,  that  "  it  was  get- 
ting late." 

Everybody  knew  Zeisler  and  Vesci.  Steinhault,  apart 
from  his  reputation,  was  personally  a  stranger  to  Eng- 
land. No  one  suspected  there  was  a  substitute  at  the 
piano,  although  many  thought  he  looked  young,  so  much 
younger  than  seemed  possible.  Manuella,  when  the  tun- 
ing and  the  adjustment  of  the  piano-stool  came  to  an  end, 


84  CONCERT    PITCH 

found  herself  near  to  the  platform.  She  stood,  as  she 
had  promised,  where  the  young  pianist  could  see  her. 
She  was  extraordinarily  eager  that  he  should  succeed. 
Waldo  was  struck  by  her  expression. 

He  thought  he  had  never  seen  her  look  so,  he  could 
not  find  the  exact  word,  but  "  exalted  "  was  the  nearest 
he  could  supply.  Her  eyes  were  as  lamps  that  had 
been  newly-lit.  Into  her  pallor  had  crept  a  flush — the 
flush  he  had  seen  come  sweetly  into  her  cheeks  when  he 
kissed  her.  Her  lips  were  a  little  parted.  Expectancy. 
He  had  found  the  word  he  wanted,  and  saw  it  typified 
in  her.  She  stood  quite  still  and  expectant.  He  wished 
he  could  have  her  painted,  just  like  that,  but  waiting  for 
him  and  not  for  the  music. 

Flockmann  appeared  first  on  the  platform  to  arrange 
the  chairs.  His  intention  had  been  to  turn  over  the 
leaves  for  Steinhault;  of  course,  he  would  not  do  that 
for  this  boy,  this  Migotti,  whoever  he  might  be,  about 
whom  he  was  doubtful,  if  not  contemptuous.  Zeisler, 
carrying  his  Stradivarius,  came  in  after  the  'cello  had 
been  placed.  Vesci,  insignificant,  apelike  in  his  ugliness, 
took  his  seat,  and  drew  the  big  instrument  nearer  to  him. 
The  boy,  with  no  trace  of  nervousness,  followed  the 
others,  forgot  to  bow  to  the  company,  took  his  seat  at 
the  piano  and  began  to  run  his  fingers  along  the  keys 
so  naturally,  so  lightly,  that  Manuella's  anxiety  and  fears 
were  suddenly  stilled.  He  was  going  to  give  them 
music — "  the  magic  of  music." 

Music  and  love  were  inseparable  in  that  wild  heart 
which  her  stepmother  said  was  so  ill-regulated ;  she  stood 
within  the  precincts  of  an  enchanted  land;  already  the 
scented  wind  from  it  was  blowing  to  her.  All  that  even- 
ing she  had  been  conscious  of  a  strange  excitement; 
Waldo's  breath  on  her  cheek  gave  her  the  same  thrill  as 
sunlit  trees,  dancing  elves  and  fairies  in  dreamland.  And 
now,  in  a  moment,  as  they  began  to  play,  her  heart  was 
more  tumultuous  ;  the  sough  of  the  wind  in  the  trees  came 
to  her,  she  saw  sunlight  and  shadow  glorifying  the  sward, 
and  all  the  greys  and  greens  were  melody. 


CONCERT    PITCH  85 

She  drew  nearer  to  the  platform,  leaning  against  the 
great  palm  at  the  end  of  the  bank  of  flowers.  It  was  not 
of  Harston  Migotti  she  was  thinking,  the  boy  at  the 
piano,  who,  when  the  first  movement  was  finished,  forgot 
to  acknowledge  the  plaudits.  Lord  Lyssons  misread  her 
expression ;  she  was  listening,  it  was  true,  but  she  was 
unconscious  of  the  performers ;  not  unconscious  of  Wal- 
do's eyes,  although  she  avoided  them.  She  had  promised 
to  talk  with  him  after  supper ;  this  music  was  the  prelude 
to  their  talk. 

Zeisler  and  Vesci  bowed  in  acknowledgment  of  the 
applause,  but  the  boy  kept  his  place  unmoved.  He 
had  only  looked  up  with  that  transfiguring  light  upon 
his  face,  and  smiled  into  her  eyes.  Lord  Lyssons  saw  it, 
to  Manuella  it  was  quite  impersonal.  There  was  no 
question  in  Migotti's  eyes,  only  assurance,  and  a  smile 
was  about  his  lips.  It  is  true  they  were  like  Beethoven's 
— well-cut,  a  little  thick,  firm  in  his  hairless  young  face. 
Zeisler  looked  at  him  and  nodded  his  head,  saying  a 
word  under  his  breath. 

Now  the  second  movement  began,  the  rich  variations 
of  the  second  movement.  In  the  first  the  violin  had  sung 
and  danced,  and  the  'cello  had  been  the  wind  in  the  trees ; 
the  piano  was  only  then  an  undercurrent,  as  moving 
waters  lapping,  water  falling,  moving  waters  that  might 
swell  to  flood.  But  in  the  second  part,  in  those  wonderful 
variations,  the  piano  led  the  'cello,  and  the  violin  was 
only  a  beam  that  danced  upon  the  waters  .  .  .  the  air 
changed  and  changed,  but  always  it  was  the  deep  notes 
of  the  piano  that  swelled  triumphantly,  and  dominated 
each  movement.  Now  their  eyes  met,  not  hers  and 
Waldo's,  but  the  eyes  of  the  boy  who  played,  and  the  girl 
who  listened.  And  after  that  it  was  upon  her  heart  he 
played.  She  did  not  know  what  had  happened,  nor  what 
barriers  were  being  thrown  down.  Only  that  all  the 
barriers  were  down,  and  there  was  nothing  between  her 
and  music.  There  were  mysteries,  and  he  at  the  piano 
knew  them.  They  were  falling  like  water  from  his 
fingers,  and  the  melody  he  was  pouring  into  her  heart 


86  CONCERT    PITCH 

was  greater  than  she  could  bear,  and  yet  she  knew  she 
could  never  again  bear  to  be  without  it.  It  was  ecstasy, 
it  was  passion  torn  to  tatters,  it  was  beyond  her  strength, 
it  was  beyond  human  endurance.  And  then,  when  she 
had  gone  so  pale  that  Waldo,  watching,  thought  she 
would  faint,  the  movement  changed  again,  into  melan- 
choly; melancholy  into  majesty.  The  end,  the  end  of 
everything  was  coming;  the  end  of  everything  had  come; 
his  ringers  crashed  upon  the  keys. 

There  was  a  moment's  hush  before  the  applause  fol- 
lowed. The  great  picture-gallery  was  half  empty  now; 
only  those  who  really  cared  for  music  had  stayed  to  hear 
the  Trio.  Prince  Basil  Francis,  notwithstanding  Lcetitia's 
deference  to  him,  was  a  very  minor  royalty,  and  not  one 
for  whom  it  was  necessary  to  wait.  They  had  gone  out 
one  by  one,  in  pairs  and  groups,  without  taking  leave  of 
their  hostess.  Those  who  remained  had  been  spellbound, 
not  as  Manuella  was  perhaps,  but  as  connoisseurs, 
critics. 

Prince  Basil  Francis  forgot  both  his  rank  and  his 
supper;  he  applauded  with  hands  and  feet  and  stentorian 
thick  voice.  Never  had  he  heard  the  Trio  played  like 
that  before.  Never  would  it  be  played  to  him  again  as 
it  was  played  that  night. 

"  Kolossd!  kolossal!"  he  cried.  "  Bravi !  Bravi !  " 
He  rose  from  his  gilded  chair;  he  called  to  Zeisler 
above  the  intervening  bank  of  flowers  and  spoke  to  him 
in  German.  Zeisler  put  both  his  feet  together,  gave  that 
stiff  little  bow  of  his,  and  answered  in  the  same  language. 
Then,  great  man,  great  genius  that  he  was,  he  went  back 
a  few  steps,  to  the  boy  at  the  piano,  putting  a  hand  upon 
his  shoulder,  urging  him.  He  was  unwilling,  but  Zeisler 
insisted  upon  leading  him  forward. 

"  Your  Highness,  it  is  he,  it  is  he  who  played  the  Trio." 
Zeisler  said  it,  and  Migotti  shook  his  head.  The  Prince 
spoke  in  German;  Zeisler  again  patted  Migotti's  shoulder, 
then  kissed  him — kissed  him  before  them  all !  But  the 
young  pianist  seemed  indifferent  to  their  praise,  smiling 
only  at  Manuella,  a  little  triumphantly.  Lord  Lyssons 
saw  it.  It  was  as  if  he  would  have  said :  "  It  was  for 


CONCERT    PITCH  87 

you  I  played."  Waldo  surmised  the  words  upon  his  lips. 

"  They  won't  stay  for  anything  else,"  Waldo  said  to 
her.  "  The  Prince  is  on  the  move  already.  Come  up- 
stairs." He  put  his  hand  on  her  arm.  "  I  have  not  had 
that  word  with  you." 

"Not  now." 

She  shrank  from  him,  because  now,  although  she  had 
no  words  for  it,  or  formula,  she  knew  that  she  loved 
him ;  that  boy  had  taught  it  her  with  his  wonderful 
playing. 

"  You  don't  want  to  hear  any  more,  do  you  ?  "  Lord 
Lyssons  asked  her. 

"  No." 

Her  head  felt  light  and  rather  strange,  her  heart  over- 
full, and  fearful.  But  she  was  happy,  amazingly  happy, 
and  softened — softened  to  saying  it.  Only  there  was  no 
opportunity.  Perhaps  she  could  have  made  one,  or  he, 
if  he  had  understood.  There  were  departing  guests,  and 
in  that  large  house  it  would  surely  have  been  possible  to 
find  solitude.  He  should  have  kissed  her  then,  taken 
her  in  his  arms,  entered  into  his  kingdom.  It  was 
Harston  Migotti's  playing  that  threw  it  open  to  him,  but 
it  was  his  for  all  that,  only  his. 

"  I  didn't  know  you  were  such  a  musical  enthusiast. 
Was  it  the  music,  or  the  young  man  with  the  flowing 
locks  ?  "  he  asked  her,  as  they  stood  at  the  top  of  the 
stairs,  and  the  people  swept  past  them  toward  the  cloak- 
room or  their  carriages. 

"  I — I  love  it."  Her  voice  was  low,  lips  a  little 
tremulous,  heart  wildly  fluttering.  Lcetitia  caught  sight 
of  them,  and  intimated  that  the  Prince  wished  to  take 
his  leave  of  Manuella.  She  curtsied  low  to  him,  and  then 
it  seemed  the  room  and  the  people  were  swaying  about 
her. 

"  My  love,  the  Duchess." 

"  Miss  Wagner  is  overtired,  I  think."  Waldo  saw 
she  had  grown  very  pale,  was  overcharged  with  emotion ; 
it  was  he  who  obtained  her  release  from  her  social  duties. 

"  Run  away  up  to  bed,  you  won't  be  missed  now. 
I'll  see  you  in  the  morning." 


CHAPTER  VIII 

IT  was  from  that  night  all  the  misunderstandings  dated, 
although  they  came  about  gradually  and  without 
natural  sequence. 

Lord  Lyssons  made  his  formal  proposal  the  next  day; 
it  was  difficult  to  say  what  urged  him  to  do  it  at  that 
particular  moment.  Perhaps  he  thought  he  could  woo 
her  better  as  her  fiance  than  as  merely  an  aspirant  to  her 
hand;  perhaps  he  wanted  to  free  himself  and  her  from 
Lcetitia ;  perhaps,  although  it  seemed  incredible,  he  really 
thought  she  was  attracted  by  the  young  musician,  and 
so  wished  to  make  himself  secure.  In  any  case,  he  had 
an  interview  with  Sir  Hubert  Wagner,  was  accepted,  and 
the  lawyers  set  to  work. 

Instead  of  being  more,  they  were  less,  together;  they 
were  hardly  ever  alone.  Trousseau  intervened  and  dress- 
makers; it  was  worse  than  before  the  presentation. 
Every  hour  seemed  to  be  occupied.  Manuella  was  for 
ever  dressing  and  undressing,  being  tried  on,  interviewed, 
seeing  fresh  people,  corsetieres,  women  with  boxes  of  lace 
and  embroidered  underwear,  perspiring  furriers  in  white 
smocks,  tailors  with  pins  in  their  mouths  and  chalk  in 
their  pockets.  There  was  no  talk,  no  leisure;  the  days 
came  and  were  gone,  leaving  on  their  ebb-tide  rich  things 
which  neither  of  them  wanted.  Wedding  invitations  had 
been  sent  out,  and  gorgeous  presents  arrived  daily. 
Glowing  descriptions  of  her  trousseau  were  in  all  the 


CONCERT    PITCH  89 

papers ;  the  Daily  Mail  and  the  Daily  Mirror  and  the 
weekly  press  vied  with  each  other  in  their  accounts  of 
the  famous  Lyssons'  sapphires  that  were  being  reset,  of 
the  priceless  Russian  sable  coat  Sir  Hubert  was  giving 
his  daughter,  of  the  parure  of  diamonds  from  Cartier  that 
was  her  stepmother's  gift.  The  public  interest  was  sup- 
posed to  be  divided  between  the  particulars  of  all  this 
magnificence,  and  stories  and  portraits  of  the  starving 
children  of  the  coal  miners,  who  were  again  on  strike. 
Equal  journalistic  space  was  given  to  both. 

Outwardly  Manuella  was  uncertain  in  temper,  shy 
when  with  her  lover,  or  flippant.  Within,  she  was  dis- 
traught, fearful,  trembling.  She  was  living  in  dreamland, 
or  cloudland,  with  rare  moments  of  exquisite  happiness 
and  reactions.  She  could  not  believe  in  what  had  come 
to  her ;  she  shrank  from  the  dazzling  splendour  of  love. 
Waldo,  too,  was  living  on  surfaces,  whimsical,  witty,  or 
merely  frivolous.  He  loved  her  enough  to  wish  she 
should  not  know  how  great  was  his  love,  at  least,  not 
yet.  His  own  nights  were  sleepless,  or  filled  with  snatches 
of  short,  unrestful  sleep.  He  was  on  fire  with  her,  but 
he  did  not  wish  that  she  should  burn.  Not  yet.  In  six 
weeks,  four  weeks,  three  weeks,  she  would  be  his,  to  teach 
and  assuage,  to  love  all  he  would.  He  was  sorry  for  her 
because  he  was  going  to  teach  her  love,  exquisitely  tender 
in  his  thoughts,  a  true  and  passionate  lover. 

Manuella,  living  through  those  overfull  days  and  rest- 
less nights,  looked  pale,  thin,  ill.  They  put  it  down  to  the 
hot  weather,  the  strain  of  her  first  season,  the  excitement 
of  the  coming  wedding. 

"  She  will  be  all  right  after  the  fourteenth,"  Lady 
Wagner  told  everyone  reassuringly,  with  that  madden- 
ingly pleasing  smile  of  hers.  "  These  are  very  exciting 
times.  The  Prince  has  sent  an  inkstand.  ..." 

She  was  full  of  the  presents,  and  the  company  who 
would  assemble  at  St.  George's,  amazingly  glad  of  the 
prospect  of  getting  the  girl  off  her  hands  and  in  so 
satisfactory  a  manner. 

Three  weeks  before  the  wedding  came  the  Buckingham 


90  CONCERT    PITCH 

Palace  garden-party.  Naturally  Lady  Wagner  would  not 
miss  such  a  function,  and  Manuella  would  of  course 
accompany  her.  Lord  Lyssons  suggested  at  lunch-time 
that  it  might  prove  fatiguing,  but  Lcetitia  overruled  his 
objections.  The  frock  of  broderie  anglaise,  the  large  leg- 
horn hat  with  the  pink  ostrich  feathers,  were  eminently 
suitable  for  the  occasion,  and  Manuella  left  the  lunch 
table  to  don  them. 

Lady  Wagner  was  already  arrayed  in  lavender  silk. 
Sir  Hubert,  for  once  evading  the  city,  was  coming  home 
to  accompany  them.  At  four  o'clock  punctually  he 
appeared  in  the  great  hall  in  all  the  glory  of  his  grey 
frock-coat  and  white  waistcoat,  grey  trousers  and  white 
spats.  In  the  background  his  valet  held  the  shining  hat 
and  gold-mounted  stick.  The  motor  puffed  at  the  open 
door. 

At  the  very  last  moment  Manuella's  French  maid  came 
running  down  to  say  that  when  Miss  Wagner  was  fully 
dressed,  not  five  minutes  ago,  in  fact,  she  had  been  taken 
ill — fainted !  She  was  already  better,  but  it  was  im- 
possible she  should  accompany  them.  She  had  bidden 
her  say  it  was  nothing.  By  the  evening  she  would  be 
well  again,  but  for  this  afternoon  she  begged  they  would 
excuse  her. 

Sir  Hubert  was  for  summoning  a  doctor.  He  sug- 
gested that  either  he  or  Lady  Wagner  should  go  upstairs 
to  see  the  girl.  He  was  sure  she  must  have  eaten  some- 
thing that  had  disagreed  with  her.  He  went  over  the 
lunch  menu,  and  questioned  the  maid  as  to  her  symptoms 
in  a  way  Lady  Wagner  considered  somewhat  gross.  He 
strongly  recommended  bi-carbonate  of  soda.  Lady  Wag- 
ner glanced  at  the  Buhl  clock,  hesitated,  then  decided  to 
restrain  her  step-maternal  anxiety  until  the  evening.  It 
was  certain  the  Queen  would  miss  them  if  they  were  not 
at  the  garden-party;  and  one  could  not  disappoint  Roy- 
alty. Lady  Wagner  was  quite  genuine  in  her  belief  that 
they  would  be  missed. 

"  Tell  Miss  Wagner  that  I  will  see  her  immediately  we 
return.  In  the  meantime  the  quieter  she  keeps  the  better. 


CONCERT    PITCH  91 

Darken  the  room,  do  not  disturb  her  until  five.  Then 
you  might  take  her  a  cup  of  tea  and  the  bi-carbonate  of 
soda  Sir  Hubert  suggests." 

Loetitia  was  nothing  if  not  precise.  She  gave  her 
instructions,  exhibiting  sufficient  solicitude.  The  mauve 
costume,  accompanied  by  the  frock-coat  and  white  waist- 
coat, drove  off,  and  Claire  repaired  to  the  servants'-hall, 
or  the  housekeeper's-room,  to  refresh  herself  after  the 
fright  her  young  mistress  had  given  her. 

"  I  thought  she  had  died  in  my  arms.  She  was  white 
like  a  sheet,  and  so  cold.  ..." 

In  the  servants'-hall  they  gossiped  about  the  marriage, 
and  it  was  agreed  that  the  Earl  was  too  old  for  his  bride, 
and  not  sufficiently  attentive. 

Manuella's  room  was  not  darkened,  and  the  cup  of  tea 
was  never  brought  to  her.  The  household  relaxed  when 
the  door  closed  behind  master  and  mistress. 

As  there  was  no  one  with  the  girl,  and  she  was  given 
no  remedies,  she  recovered  quickly  from  her  faint.  She 
took  off  her  hat,  letting  down  her  hair  to  relieve  the 
weight  upon  her  head,  rolling  it  up  again  presently  in  a 
simpler  fashion.  It  became  her  better  this  way,  but  she 
did  not  think  of  that.  She  did  not  think  at  all,  she  was 
incapable  of  thought.  She  sat  for  a  little  while  at  the 
open  window  of  her  bedroom,  and  then  went  downstairs. 
She  was  shaky  and  pale  after  her  attack  of  faintness,  and 
there  was  a  singing  in  her  ears.  The  singing  in  her  ears 
presently  resolved  itself  into  melody,  a  haunting  strain, 
something  of  which  she  must  rid  herself,  to  which  she 
must  give  expression. 

There  was  no  piano  in  her  own  sitting-room,  and  she 
wandered  down  to  the  music  room.  Of  course  the  mel- 
ody that  was  haunting  her  was  from  the  second  move- 
ment of  the  Trio.  How  wonderfully  the  young  pianist 
had  dominated  it — an  interesting  boy.  Quite  idly  she 
wondered  what  had  become  of  him,  and  where  he  was 
playing.  If  it  had  not  been  for  him  she  would  not  have 
known  what  was  the  feeling  she  had  for  Lord  Lyssons. 
Music  and  love  were  one  with  her;  her  love  had  had  no 


92  CONCERT   PITCH 

expression,  it  was  imprisoned  and  stifled  within  her. 
making  her  pulses  and  her  breath  irregular.  She  wanted 
to  tell  Waldo,  but  she  had  never  told  him ;  he  had  never 
asked  her  if  she  cared  for  him.  It  seemed  impossible 
that  in  three  weeks  they  would  be  married !  The  blood 
rushed  into  her  face  when  she  remembered  it.  Then  she 
began  to  play.  She  would  have  sung,  there  was  song  in 
her  heart,  but  her  uneven  pulses  shook  her  voice. 

It  was  an  untrained  underfootman  who  played  Provi- 
dence or  Improvidence,  the  part  for  which  he  was  cast 
in  the  drama  of  her  story.  The  part  would  never  have 
fallen  to  him  but  for  the  laxity  that  fell  upon  the  estab- 
lishment in  the  absence  of  master  and  mistress. 

"  If  you  please,  miss.  ..." 

The  butler  may  have  been  at  his  bookmaker's,  the  first 
footman  pursuing  Claire  in  the  servants'-hall,  the  second 
footman  waiting  on  the  major-domo.  This  Deus  ex 
machina  was  new  to  high  service,  a  mere  tyro  translated 
from  buttons.  That  he  had  seen  Miss  Wagner  descend 
the  stairs,  and  therefore  knew  she  was  at  home  was  not 
legitimate  knowledge,  and  he  ought  to  have  concealed 
it.  To  answer  the  door-bell  at  all  was  encroaching  on 
another's  duty.  That  when  a  bell  rings  it  must  be 
answered,  he  may  have  learned  in  Kensington  or  Bays- 
water.  Having  answered  it,  he  ought  to  have  known  Lady 
Wagner  was  out,  and  Miss  Wagner  not  receiving.  His 
address  was  out  of  scale  with  the  household  to  which  he 
had  the  honour  of  being  affiliated. 

"  If  you  please,  miss,  it's  one  of  the  gentlemen  who 
was  here  the  other  night.  He  asked  if  you  was  at  home, 
and  I  said  you  had  just  gone  into  the  music-room." 

Her  surprised  eyes  told  him  he  had  bungled  in  some 
way;  he  fled  before  the  consciousness  of  mistake,  washing 
his  hands  of  the  incident,  covering  it  up  by  flight,  trust- 
ing only  that  it  might  not  come  to  Mr.  Jenkins'  knowl- 
edge— Mr.  Jenkins  being  the  butler,  and  not  above  boxing 
his  ears.  He  meant  no  harm ;  he  sinned  in  ignorance. 

He  had  led  the  way,  and  Harston  Migotti  followed 
him,  naturally. 


CONCERT    PITCH  93 

"  But  I  interrupt  you  .  .  .  you  are  playing."  He 
halted  at  the  door. 

Of  course  she  stopped  playing  and  rose.  She  was 
surprised  to  see  him,  but  she  remembered  him  quite  well ; 
she  had  even  been  thinking  of  him,  and  of  his  wonderful 
playing,  and  told  him  so  in  that  reprehensively  impulsive 
way  of  hers. 

She  was  deficient  in  the  social  sense ;  her  stepmother 
was  quite  right.  When  he  said  that  he  had  not  known 
if  he  ought  to  call,  but  he  wanted  so  much  to  see  her 
again,  to  thank  her,  she  neither  rebuked  him  for  his  pre- 
sumptuousness,  nor  dismissed  him  quickly  with  an  easily 
invented  excuse.  She  began  at  once  to  talk  music  to 
him,  since  she  knew  he  was  a  true  musician.  She  spoke 
enthusiastically  of  Zeisler  and  Madame  Liebius,  and  was 
interested  to  hear  that  the  great  contralto  was  related  to 
him.  He  was  easy  to  talk  to,  simple  and  candid.  She 
was  glad  to  be  free  from  her  thoughts  and  emotions  for  a 
while.  "  I  am  not  a  pianist,"  he  said,  when  she  questioned 
him,  "  although  I  was  with  Steinhault.  I  am  a  composer." 

She  had  never  met  a  composer,  and  wanted  to  know 
how  his  music  came  to  him.  It  did  not  seem  vanity 
when  he  answered  that  it  came  the  same  way  as  to  all  the 
great  masters.  He  spoke  of  a  symphony  that  he  had 
written  when  he  was  fourteen,  and  compared  himself 
with  Mozart. 

"  But  in  many  ways,  in  most  ways,  I  am  like  your 
namesake,  like  the  great  Richard  Wagner.  I  am  writing 
now  an  opera,  and  the  libretto  also." 

With  very  little  persuasion  he  played  her  a  move- 
ment from  the  Introduction,  then  he  repeated  the  leit 
motif.  It  was  really  beautiful  and  striking,  original  and 
even  haunting,  and,  of  course,  she  told  him  so. 

"  I  want  to  hear  more  of  it.  When  can  I  hear  more 
of  it?" 

He  was  flattered,  pleased.  Already,  on  the  night  of 
the  concert,  he  had  thought  her  the  most  beautiful  girl 
he  had  ever  seen.  This  afternoon  with  the  languor  from 
her  faint,  her  hair  loose,  listening  to  his  music,  she  was 


94  CONCERT    PITCH 

no  less  so.  He  called  himself  an  Englishman,  but  he  had 
had  an  Italian  mother,  who,  as  he  told  Manuella  later  on, 
had  "  lost  everything  for  love." 

He  permitted  himself  to  fall  in  love  now,  although  he 
knew  Miss  Wagner  was  fiancee,  and  not  for  him  in  any 
case.  He  played  her  the  great  song  from  the  second  act 
of  his  opera — a  passionate  invocation. 

"  I  wish  I  could  sing  it,"  she  exclaimed,  and  told  him 
that  once  she  had  wished  to  be  an  opera  singer. 

"  But  why  not  ?  I  am  sure  you  can  sing  my  music." 
He  encouraged  her,  struck  the  notes  singly,  and  then  left 
off  to  tell  her  how  it  had  come  to  him,  and  that  it  was  a 
great  English  opera  he  was  writing;  the  subject  was 
Boadicea  and  the  Roman  conquest  of  Britain.  No,  it 
was  not  like  Norma,  nor  that  other  opera  called  Boadicea, 
it  was  an  expression  of  rare  and  national  character  in 
wild  forest  land  unreclaimed.  It  was  easy  to  see  that  his 
belief  in  his  creation  was  supreme. 

She  found  his  conversation  fascinating;  it  led  her  into 
another  world,  one  more  congenial  to  her  than  this  pro- 
saic one.  It  was  the  world  in  which  she  had  dwelt  in  her 
childhood's  dreams. 

Harston  Migotti  had  been  a  "  wonder  child "  like 
Mozart — an  infant  prodigy.  His  years  with  Steinhault 
had  perhaps  subdued  him  a  little;  but,  now  in  England, 
and  writing  his  first  opera,  his  genius  and  egotism  were 
magnetic.  He  carried  the  girl  right  out  of  herself.  He 
was  a  boy  on  the  threshold  of  a  wonderful  life.  He  him- 
self told  her  of  the  wonders,  dwelling  on  them,  holding 
her  imagination  captive. 

For  the  moment  she  almost  forgot  what  it  was  that 
would  make  her  own  life  equally  wonderful.  It  had 
never  been  spoken.  She  thought  whilst  he  was  speaking 
that,  in  contrast  to  his,  her  life  would  be  dull,  flat,  spent 
at  dinners  and  garden-parties,  in  fine  clothes,  artificially 
smiling,  perhaps,  like  her  stepmother.  Not  in  writing 
great  music,  or  playing  and  singing  it.  What  a  life  this 
inspired  boy  had  before  him  !  She  held  her  breath  whilst 
he  talked. 


CONCERT    PITCH  95 

Manuella,  in  her  muslin  embroidered  frock  that  had 
been  donned  for  the  royal  garden-party,  her  pallor,  her 
dark  eyes  with  their  long,  thick  lashes,  her  mouth  like 
a  bow,  her  cleft  chin,  listening,  listening  to  him  as  he 
painted  that  great  future  of  his,  impelled  him  to  greater 
effort.  It  was  quite  involuntarily,  and  really  because 
he  had  that  great  belief  in  himself  that  set  him  apart  from 
other  men  or  boys,  that  he  exclaimed : 

"  But  what  a  pity  you  will  marry ! " 

When  her  pallor  warmed  she  was  even  lovelier.  He 
meant  what  a  pity  it  was  that  she  should  marry  Lord 
Lyssons.  She  was  fit  to  be  his  own  bride  ;  every  moment 
his  feeling  for  her  intensified;  he  knew  already  that  he 
was  falling  deeply  in  love  with  her.  But  she  understood 
him  to  mean  that  it  was  a  pity  she  should  marry  instead 
of  becoming  a  singer,  and  she  answered  soberly. 

"  I  don't  suppose  my  voice  is  really  any  good.  I  have 
hardly  sung  since  I  left  school." 

She  rang  for  tea  presently.  Why  not,  since  it  was  tea 
time,  and  he  was  here  ? 

The  butler  must  have  been  still  at  his  bookmaker's, 
but  the  first  footman  was  equal  to  his  responsibilities. 
He  supposed,  if  he  supposed  anything  at  all,  that  the 
music  for  her  wedding  was  being  arranged.  He  played 
the  accordion  himself  in  his  leisure  hours,  and  therefore 
knew  the  importance  of  music.  He  was  able  to  report 
to  Claire  that  her  young  lady  looked  better,  she  had  quite 
a  colour  in  her  cheeks ;  "  rare  and  handsome  she  looked : 
like  mistress  like  maid."  He  was  quite  an  eloquent  first 
footman. 

Harston  Migotti  drank  his  tea  like  an  ordinary  young 
man,  talking  all  the  time,  eating  as  much  cake  as  there 
was  in  the  basket,  and  finishing  all  the  bread  and  butter. 

There  was  really  little  to  excite  Loetitia's  horrified 
exclamation  when  she  came  in  from  the  garden-party, 
and  heard  that  her  stepdaughter  had  recovered  from  her 
faint,  and  was  in  the  music-room  "  having  tea  with  one  of 
the  gentlemen  who  played  at  the  concert."  Many  things 
had  combined  to  irritate  her  that  afternoon,  and  this  was 


96  CONCERT    PITCH 

the  culminating  one.  Her  future  son-in-law  had  sug- 
gested that  she  had  not  taken  sufficient  care  of  Manuella, 
allowing  her  to  be  ill  without  medical  care. 

Here  in  the  music-room  she  found  her,  she  who  was 
supposed  to  be  ill,  unable  to  obey  the  Royal  command, 
sitting  with  a  musician — a  professional  musician,  with 
long  hair,  in  familiar  intercourse,  drinking  tea.  It  was 
with  difficulty  Loetitia  kept  her  self-command.  She  al- 
ways prided  herself  that  her  temper  was  not  like  Man- 
uella's,  that  she  was  calm  and  dignified  under  any  cir- 
cumstances, even  such  as  these. 

"  I  have  not  the  pleasure  of  knowing  this  gentleman, 
have  I  ?  "  she  began  icily,  after  expressing  her  astonish- 
ment at  finding  Manuella  recovered,  not  in  her  bed- 
room. 

She  stared  at  Harston,  put  up  her  glasses  and  surveyed 
him. 

"  I  don't  think  I  know  this  gentleman." 

Manuella  was  in  arms  before  she  was  attacked,  it  was 
always  the  way  with  her. 

"  He  played  in  the  Trio." 

Lady  Wagner  continued  to  stare. 

"  Indeed,  that  is  very  interesting.  And  has  anything 
happened?  Is  there  any  reason  for  this  intrusion?  I 
really  do  not  understand,  perhaps  you  can  explain  why, 
when  we  thought  you  were  in  your  room — Lord  Lyssons 
was  most  distressed  about  your  condition,  he  is  sending 
his  own  physician  to  see  you,  for  he  was  not  to  be  satis- 
fied with  Sir  William  Bellairs — I  find  you  here,  with 
this  person  ..." 

She  paused  as  if  words  failed  her.  Migotti  had  risen 
and  was  now  waiting  for  the  introduction.  He,  of 
course,  had  no  idea  she  meant  to  insult  him.  He  said 
again,  as  he  had  said  the  other  night,  simply,  and  as  if 
it  were  sufficient : 

"  I  am  Harston  Migotti." 

"  Migotti !  "  She  repeated  the  name  as  if  it  were 
something  unclean,  with  a  bad  odour,  to  be  held  at  a 
distance.  "  Migotti !  Is  it  anything  to  do  with  the 


CONCERT    PITCH  97 

account?  Sir  Hubert  would  prefer,  I  am  sure,  to  settle 
through  Messrs.  Flockmann." 

"  Mr.  Migotti  wanted  to  see  me  again,  that's  why  he 
came.  It  has  nothing  to  do  with  the  account."  Man- 
uella's  face  flamed,  her  quick  temper  rising.  Lady  Wag- 
ner put  up  her  lorgnette,  looked  at  her,  at  him,  then  let 
it  fall  again.  She  "  did  not  know  what  things  were 
coming  to,"  she  said. 

"  He  only  played  to  oblige  us,  he  is  not  a  pianist ;  he  is 
a  composer,  a  musician." 

"  An  itinerant  musician !  " 

Why  '  itinerant '  she  could  not  explain,  but  the  juxta- 
position of  the  words  pleased  her,  and  she  repeated  them. 

"  An  initerant  musician !  I  am  surprised,  really  sur- 
prised. I  don't  know  what  Lord  Lyssons  would  say." 

"  Why  should  he  say  anything  ?  " 

What  Lady  Wagner  implied  was  that  in  receiving 
Harston  Migotti,  talking  to  him,  giving  him  tea,  she  had 
b'een  guilty  of  something  surreptitious,  unlady-like,  repre- 
hensible. Manuella  resented  it,  flamed  out  in  his  defence, 
although,  as  Lady  Wagner  said  afterwards,  he  had  never 
been  attacked. 

Manuella  said  vehemently  that  he  was  a  great  artist; 
that  she  was  proud  he  wanted  to  see  her  again,  proud  of 
having  tea  with  him.  Lcetitia  replied  in  the  gentlest 
way  possible — we  have  her  word  for  this — that  she 
"  thought  the  servants'-hall  would  have  been  more  suit- 
able," and  without  giving  the  suggestion  the  slightest 
consideration,  in  the  most  uncalled-for  way,  Manuella 
exclaimed  with  reddening  face  that  she  would  not  allow 
him  to  be  insulted.  She  seemed  so  agitated,  so  much 
more  so  than  the  occasion  warranted,  that  Lcetitia  admit- 
ted she  became  suspicious. 

Migotti  hardly  understood  what  was  being  said;  he 
was  not  quick  to  apprehend  anything  but  praise  or 
appreciation.  Although  he  averred  he  was  an  English- 
man, the  language  had  difficulties  for  him.  He  mis- 
apprehended the  position.  It  was  as  a  guest  and  an 
equal  that  Lcetitia  objected  to  his  presence.  He  thought 


98  CONCERT    PITCH 

this  hoch  geborene  Dante  already  understood  that  he  had 
fallen  in  love  with  her  daughter,  that  she  was  quicker 
than  he  in  realizing  that  the  feeling  might  be  mutual. 

"  I  will  go.  You  must  not  be  angry  with  her,  madam, 
she  did  not  know !  I  have  not  spoken  of  it.  I  will  go." 

He  bowed  over  the  girl's  hand;  he  even  kissed  it. 

"  I  will  come  again  soon." 

He  was  gone  before  Lcetitia  had  recovered  from  the 
shock  of  hearing  him  say  it.  Manuella  was  not  even 
conscious  of  the  salute,  she  was  so  full  of  indignation 
against  her  stepmother. 


CHAPTER  IX 

LADY  WAGNER  had,  of  course,  legitimate  grounds 
for  being  annoyed.  She  and  Sir  Hubert  had 
walked  in  the  grounds  of  Marlborough  House  almost 
unnoticed,  unnoticed,  that  is,  by  the  Royalties  whom 
they  had  feared  to  disappoint.  It  was  also  most  vexatious 
to  find  so  many  of  their  old  acquaintances  in  the  grounds 
and  in  the  tents,  people  whom  they  would  not  welcome 
in  Stone  House.  Lady  Wagner  thought  the  Royal  Fam- 
ily wanting  in  discrimination,  but  consoled  herself  with 
the  reflection  that  they  were  influenced  by  a  Liberal 
Government,  and  that  it  was  the  Lord  Chamberlain  who 
was  responsible  for  sending  out  the  invitations.  Lord 
Lyssons,  who  was  on  the  watch  for  them,  sympathized 
with  her  vexation,  and  confirmed  her  explanation.  He 
said  gravely  that  there  was  no  doubt  the  indiscriminate 
hospitality  that  was  being  dispensed  was  directly  due 
to  Lloyd  George's  dictatorship. 

But  having  fooled  Lcetitia  to  the  top  of  her  bent,  and 
waited  to  hear  why  Manuella  was  not  there,  he  showed 
himself  more  anxious  than  the  occasion  warranted.  At 
least,  so  Lcetitia  told  him  with  ponderous  playfulness. 
He  declined  altogether  to  accept  Sir  Hubert's  diagnosis 
of  indigestion.  Hitherto  he  had  hardly  been  a  person, 
only  an  alliance,  and  Lady  Wagner  had  only  disliked  him 
vaguely;  but  this  afternoon  she  thought  him  wanting 
not  only  in  taste  but  in  tact. 

99 


ioo  CONCERT    PITCH 

"  She  has  been  looking  seedy  for  a  long  time.  She 
ought  to  have  seen  a  doctor.  We  mustn't  wait  any 
longer." 

"  My  dear  Waldo,"  Lcetitia  spoke  quite  gently,  al- 
though she  was  annoyed.  "  Don't  you  think  that  /  am 
the  best  judge  of  whether  or  not  Manuella  requires  medi- 
cal attention  ?  We  mothers  are  very  observant."  It  was 
the  bland  and  soothing  answer  that  should  have  turned 
away  wrath. 

"  Quite  true.  But  Manuella's  mother  has  been  dead 
for  so  many  years  that  one  cannot  blame  her  for  inatten- 
tion. You,  now,  you  have  so  many  engagements ;  you 
are  so  occupied,  worthily  occupied,  it  is  impossible  you 
should  have  noticed  that  Manuella  has  grown  very  thin, 
that  her  colour  comes  and  goes  easily.  ..."  With  an 
effort  he  made  his  voice  indifferent.  "  Think  of  her  as 
she  was  when  she  first  came  home."  Then  he  took  it 
more  lightly.  "  I  am  only  marrying  half  the  girl  to 
whom  I  proposed.  I  am  being  palpably  defrauded." 

"  I  should  not  have  been  at  all  pleased  to  see  Manuella 
grow  stout.  Her  father  would  not  have  approved ;  it  is 
a  tendency  with  Spanish  women.  You  know  Manuella's 
mother  was  a  Spaniard.  Slenderness  is  so  much  more 
refined,  and  it  is  the  vogue." 

"  I  don't  fancy  standing  up  at  the  altar  with  a  skele- 
ton." 

The  sense  of  humour  had  been  left  out  of  Lcetitia's 
fashioning. 

"  My  dear  boy,  you  exaggerate  things,"  she  expostu- 
lated. "  Of  course,  your  anxiety  does  you  credit."  She 
became  arch  and  gave  a  little  pat  to  his  arm.  "  It  is 
always  an  agitating  period  in  a  girl's  life ;  you  must  make 
allowances  for  Manuella.  She  is  very  young.  We  must 
not  encourage  her  to  think  herself  delicate.  After  the 
fourteenth.  ..." 

"  As  she  did  not  wait  till  after  the  fourteenth  to 
have  a  fainting  fit,  perhaps  it  is  a  pity  to  wait  until  then 
for  her  to  see  a  doctor." 

Lady  Wagner  wanted  to  walk  on ;  she  saw  a  Duchess, 


CONCERT   PITCH  101 

and  she  disliked  argument.  But  Sir  Hubert  lingered, 
and  said  irresolutely: 

"  I  think,  my  dear,  perhaps  Waldo  is  right.  Sir  Wil- 
liam, now.  ..." 

"  No !  No !  Not  that  old  windbag !  I  beg  pardon, 
sir,  I  forgot  you  believed  in  him,  that  he  attended  you. 
But  for  Manuella,  someone  younger,  less,  shall  we  say, 
less  eminent,  would  be  better." 

Lady  Wagner  went  as  far  as  she  thought  advisable  in 
opposition,  even  further.  She  had,  of  course,  noticed  that 
Manuella  looked  ill  since  her  engagement  with  the  Duke 
had  been  broken  off.  But,  of  course,  that  had  been  en- 
tirely her  own  fault.  Lady  Wagner  was  tired  of  the  girl, 
of  the  consequence  her  affairs  were  assuming.  She 
wanted  to  get  the  wedding  over  and  Manuella  out  of  the 
way  as  quickly  as  possible.  She  would  find  it  so  much 
more  agreeable  to  speak  of  "  our  daughter,  the  Countess 
of  Lyssons,"  than  of  her  as  an  inmate  of  Stone  House, 
monopolizing  attention.  It  was  "  just  like  the  girl  to 
faint  so  inconveniently,  to  like  a  fuss  being  made  about 
her." 

Loetitia  was  angry,  but  neither  her  anger  nor  her 
obstinacy  was  proof  against  Waldo's  insistence.  When 
he  saw  them  to  the  motor  the  last  thing  he  said  was : 

"  Then  I'll  go  now  and  arrange  for  Shorter  to  see  her." 

"  I  suppose  you  must  have  your  own  way.  ..." 

This  smile  was  not  "  pleasing " ;  Lcetitia  showed  all 
her  teeth,  it  was  more  like  a  snarl. 


This  was  a  bad  prelude  to  the  return  home,  finding  the 
girl  "  closeted  with  a  strange  musician."  Loetitia  had 
fully  intended  drawing  Manuella's  attention  to  Lord 
Lyssons'  evident  dissatisfaction  with  her  appearance  and 
manner.  She  thought  it  possible  that  she  could  put  the 
matter  before  her  in  such  a  way  that  Manuella  would 
herself  refuse  to  see  a  doctor,  and  assert  that  she  was 
quite  well.  Lady  \Vagner  was  averse  to  the  idea  of 


102  CONCERT    PITCH 

medical  interference,  also  of  being  coerced  or  contra- 
dicted. She  foresaw  that  even  more  attention  would  be 
devoted  to  the  girl ;  it  was  possible  a  suggestion  might 
be  made  of  postponing  the  marriage.  There  is  little 
doubt  she  would  have  succeeded  in  her  scheme,  but 
unfortunately,  to  use  again  Loetitia's  words : 

"  Because  I  was  astonished  at  rinding  her  entertaining 
this  young  man,  on  intimate  terms  with  him — he  was 
even  kissing  her  hands — she  put  herself  in  an  ungovern- 
able temper.  ..." 

The  result  was  another  fainting  fit,  in  the  midst  of 
which  Waldo  walked  in,  unannounced,  and  received  the 
foregoing  explanation. 

He  hardly  listened  to  it  at  the  time ;  if  he  was  conscious 
of  a  dull  ache  he  put  it  down  to  Manuella's  white  rigidity, 
and  his  uneasiness  about  her  health.  He  gathered  there 
had  been  a  scene,  because  Manuella  had  not  stopped  at 
home  alone,  but  had  received  a  young  man.  He  knew 
well  enough  what  young  man  it  was  she  had  received, 
although  he  put  away  the  thought  of  it  for  another  time. 
Now  he  was  only  anxious  to  get  assistance  for  her. 

She  recovered  consciousness  within  a  few  minutes,  and 
was  understood  to  say  she  was  all  right  again,  was  able 
to  go  upstairs  alone,  and  wanted  no  help.  Lord  Lyssons 
put  a  steadying  arm  about  her,  and  Lcetitia  improved 
the  occasion  as  the  lift  mounted. 

"  If  you  had  only  been  guided  by  me  and  remained  in 
your  own  room.  But,  of  course,  if  you  had  an  appoint- 
ment with  Mr.  Migotti "  Manuella  did  not  contra- 
dict this,  and  Waldo  noticed  the  omission. 

When  she  got  to  her  own  room  she  begged  them  to 
leave  her  alone.  "  I  am  really  all  right,"  she  said. 

"  I'll  get  Shorter  to  come  at  once,"  Waldo  told  Loetitia. 
"  I  am  sure  that  is  the  best  thing  to  do." 

"  You  must  not  be  alarmed.  She  works  herself  up 
into  this  condition,  her  temper  is  so  unfortunate.  ..." 
He  was  out  of  the  house  before  she  finished  her  sentence. 

Lcetitia  saw  there  was  no  use  in  opposing  him.  It 
would  be  easy  to  explain  to  the  doctor  when  he  came  that 


CONCERT   PITCH  103 

Manuella  had  always  been  hysterical  and  difficult  to 
manage,  that  no  fuss  should  be  made  about  her — no 
unnecessary  fuss. 

Her  task  might  have  been  easy  with  any  other  physi- 
cian than  Tom  Shorter.  She  would  have  persuaded  him 
to  diagnose  the  "  excitement  of  the  coming  wedding," 
prescribe  bromide,  and  tide  them  over  the  next  three 
weeks.  Then  Manuella  would  be  Lord  Lyssons'  responsi- 
bility, and  no  longer  hers. 

Lady  Wagner  went  into  the  smaller  drawing-room 
when  she  heard  the  doctor  had  arrived,  in  all  the  panoply 
of  her  motherhood,  still  in  her  mauve  garden-party  cos- 
tume, prepared  to  command  the  situation. 

Dr.  Shorter  was  a  little  man,  but  he  was  a  little  man 
with  a  big  head,  and  an  even  bigger  personality.  Lady 
Wagner  bowed  to  him  condescendingly  as  Waldo  named 
them  to  each  other,  and  began  at  once : 

"  I  hope  you  will  say  you  have  been  sent  for  under 
false  pretences,  Dr.  Shorter."  Her  smile  was  artificial, 
and  her  voice,  to  a  trained  observer,  showed  resentment. 
"  But  our  bridegroom  here  " — now  she  was  recovering 
herself  and  displaying  pleasantry — "  could  not  accept 
my  assurances,  would  not  believe  in  a  mother's  instinct." 

"  Where  is  the  patient  ?  I'm  afraid  I've  not  much 
time  to  spare."  Dr.  Shorter  was  not  in  the  least  im- 
pressed by  the  house  or  Lady  Wagner,  and  he  was  too 
impatient  to  listen  to  her  periods. 

Lady  Wagner  was  not  used  to  being  interrupted  when 
she  spoke. 

"  I  think  before  you  see  her  I  must  tell  you  something 
of  the  circumstances.  ..." 

"  Is  the  girl  here  ?  " 

"  She  is  upstairs,  lying  down,  fully  conscious,  quite  re- 
covered from  a  slight  faintness.  I  am  sure  it  was  unnec- 
essary to  trouble  you,  but  Lord  Lyssons  was  so  urgent. 
If  I  tell  you  the  symptoms,  and  you  write  a  prescription 
for,  shall  we  say,  a  little  bromide?  I  am  sure,  doctor, 
you  agree  with  me  that  bromide  is  the  drug  for  these 
hysterical  cases.  ..." 


io4  CONCERT    PITCH 

He  had  already  summed  her  up.  Not  knowing  the 
relationship,  he  hoped  for  Waldo's  sake  that  mother  and 
daughter  were  of  different  calibre.  He  and  Waldo  were 
old  friends.  He  hated  having  been  called  here  from  his 
work,  and  wished  the  woman  would  leave  off  talking 
and  let  him  see  the  girl,  since  it  was  for  that  he  had 
come.  For  himself,  he  wanted  to  get  through  with  his 
visit,  and  go  on  to  one  much  more  interesting;  an  out- 
patient of  his  hospital,  to  whom  he  had  given  an  appoint- 
ment at  his  own  house,  a  man  with  an  obscure  and 
really  interesting  complaint,  whose  case  he  had  been  in- 
vestigating for  days. 

But  Lady  Wagner  was  not  to  be  hurried. 

"  It  is,  as  I  have  already  told  his  lordship,  a  little 
hysteria,  or  nervous  debility,  from  which  she  is  suffering. 
I  am  sure  you  will  agree  it  is  not  at  all  strange  under  the 
circumstances.  In  my  younger  days  we  should  have 
given  valerian,  but  now  I  think  bromide  is  the  more 
fashionable  ?  "  She  turned  archly  to  Lord  Lyssons : 

"  You  see,  I  am  not  wholly  ignorant  of  medicine." 

"His  lordship!  Oh,  Waldo!  Well!  Can  I  go  up 
to  her?" 

"  I  see  you  are  quite  impatient." 

She  gave  one  of  her  pleasing  smiles,  and  Dr.  Shorter 
wondered  quite  suddenly,  and  inconsequently,  how  she 
would  look  without  her  flesh.  If  her  teeth  were  her  own 
hers  might  be  quite  a  presentable  skull.  He  lost  the  next 
sentence  or  two,  but  heard : 

"  She  must  be  quite  well,  you  know,  for  the  four- 
teenth." LxEtitia  was  quite  playful  about  that,  and  he 
thought  her  even  a  greater  fool  than  she  was.  "  I  am 
sure  you  can  do  it  if  you  try.  You  look  so  clever." 

He  seemed  an  extraordinary  person,  with  no  sense  of 
social  values.  Yet  he  had  spoken  of  Lord  Lyssons  as 
"  Waldo."  There  was  no  end  to  the  inconsistencies  of 
the  Upper  Ten.  It  was  the  only  one  of  their  traits  she 
had  not  been  able  to  imitate.  She  herself  was  thoroughly 
consistent. 

"  You  don't  mind  if  I  don't  come  up  with  you  ?  " 


CONCERT    PITCH  105 

"  Oh,  no,  thank  you ;  I  would  much  rather  see  her 
alone." 

A  maid  showed  him  upstairs  to  his  patient. 

Dr.  Shorter,  although  he  was  insignificant  from  Lady 
Wagner's  point  of  view,  was  really  a  remarkable  person. 
He  was  a  scientist,  but  also  a  humanitarian,  a  strange 
combination  of  gifts,  and  one  responsible  for  the  unique 
position  he  held.  He  had  considerably  more  work  than 
he  could  do  at  a  time  when  most  men  of  his  age — he 
was  not  yet  forty — are  still  engaged  in  wondering  how 
and  when,  advertisement  being  forbidden  them,  they  are 
to  get  patients  to  their  consulting-rooms.  But  every 
patient  that  came  to  Dr.  Shorter  became  an  advertise- 
ment for  him. 

He  was  one  of  those  men  of  whom  there  are  rarely 
more  than  one  in  each  generation,  to  whom  his  profes- 
sion is  at  once  a  passion  and  a  privilege.  He  lived  to 
heal  the  sick. 

When  he  entered  her  bedroom  he  saw  that  the  girl, 
almost  a  child,  who  made  a  startled  effort  to  rise,  was 
sick.  Of  this  he  had  no  doubt.  He  forgot  the  man  with 
the  interesting  kidney  who  was  waiting  for  him,  and  all 
his  appointments.  So  this  was  Waldo's  fiancee — the 
daughter  of  that  dreadful  woman  downstairs ! 

With  her  thick  hair  in  two  plaits,  the  open  nightgown 
showing  her  immaturity,  she  looked  even  less  than  her 
age.  She  needed  help  and  he  had  no  doubt  he  could 
give  it  to  her.  That  he  misapprehended  the  circum- 
stances was  not  wonderful.  He  knew  about  the  Inland 
Revenue  and  Waldo's  financial  embarrassments. 

Manuella  had  not  heard  she  was  to  see  a  doctor;  she 
sprang  up  in  bed  and  would  have  remonstrated.  She 
had  a  fearful  headache,  and  only  wished  to  be  left  alone. 
Dr.  Shorter  soon  reassured  her,  bidding  her  lie  still. 
Then  he  sat  down  by  her  side. 

She  said  quickly  she  didn't  want  to  lie  down ;  she 
wasn't  ill. 

"Of  course  you  are  not.  Who  said  you  were?  You 
are  quite  well,  and  you  are  quite  happy  too  ? " 


io6  CONCERT    PITCH 

She  made  no  answer. 

He  had  his  hand  on  her  pulse. 

"  Of  course  you  are ;  so  you  ought  to  be.  All  young 
things  ought  to  be  happy,  although  they  ought  not  to  cry 
about  it.  You  are  not  crying?  I  wonder  how  I  made 
such  a  mistake  !  " 

Whilst  he  was  talking  he  felt  her  pulse,  sounded  her 
lungs,  listened  to  her  heart,  made  her  lie  back  again, 
asking  her  one  or  two  more  questions. 

Then,  almost  before  she  knew,  under  his  skilful  and 
sympathetic  questioning,  she  was  telling  him  of  her  con- 
stant sense  of  strangeness  and  unreality,  the  feeling  of 
unsubstantiality  in  the  figures  about  her,  the  uneasy 
nights,  the  days  without  appetite,  the  days  when  appetite 
would  hardly  be  satisfied. 

It  would  have  been  easy  to  label  it  hysteria,  but  it  was 
not  Dr.  Shorter's  way  to  take  these  easy  paths.  Physi- 
cians of  the  newest  school  would  have  taken  a  drop  of 
the  girl's  blood,  made  a  culture,  and  returned  with  a 
definite  diagnosis  of  anaemia.  And  they  would  have  been 
technically  right.  Dr.  Shorter,  acknowledging  the  hys- 
terical symptoms,  and  admitting  the  anaemia,  looked  be- 
yond both  for  the  cause  of  either.  He  talked  to  her, 
leading  her  to  talk  to  him,  staying  with  her  for  nearly  an 
hour.  At  the  end  of  that  time  he  knew  more  about  her 
physical  condition  than  any  number  of  analyses  would 
have  given  him.  He  wrote  no  prescription,  gave  her 
neither  instructions  nor  advice.  She  was  to  be  married 
in  less  than  three  weeks'  time!  The  woman  downstairs 
had  hurried  her  into  it.  She  was  altogether  too  young, 
to  say  nothing  of  her  being  obviously  anaemic,  with  an 
irregular  pulse. 

"  You  are  not  eighteen  yet  ?  "  he  asked  her. 

"  No,  not  until  October." 

"  And  are  you  so  much  in  love  with  Waldo  that  you 
could  not  wait  ?  " 

It  was  true  the  colour  came  and  went  fitfully,  unevenly. 
Now  she  gave  him  a  hurried  look,  and  the  flush  swept 
from  brow  to  chin. 


CONCERT    PITCH  107 

"Did  he  say  so?"  she  asked,  then  turned  her  head 
away  and  hid  it  in  the  pillow. 

She  was  too  young,  little  more  than  a  child.  This 
was  her  principal  ailment,  and  there  was  only  one  way 
to  cure  it. 

He  saw  quickly,  with  that  wide,  clear  vision  of  his, 
that  this  was  not  a  commonplace  flower  of  a  girl,  who 
could  be  uprooted  with  impunity  at  such  a  critical  mo- 
ment in  her  growth.  There  was  something  rare  and 
exotic  in  the  fragrance  of  her  youth.  But  it  would 
wither,  there  could  be  no  blossom  from  it  under  the  treat- 
ment she  was  receiving.  He  did  not  divine  into  how  rich 
and  congenial  a  soil  the  transplantation  would  have  been. 
He  knew  Waldo  only  as  a  hunter  of  big  game,  a  humor- 
ist, not  as  a  tender  and  considerate  lover. 

Dr.  Shorter  did  not  see  Lady  Wagner  again.  She  had 
dressed  and  gone  out  to  dinner.  He  left  a  note  for  her — 
an  absurd  and  inconsiderate  note,  as  Lady  Wagner  ex- 
claimed when  she  read  it : 

"  MADAM, 

"  I  find  your  daughter  anaemic  and  in  bad  con- 
dition generally.  The  marriage  should  be  postponed 
at  least  three,  perhaps  six  months,  possibly  a  year.  She 
must  keep  early  hours,  eat  plain  food,  be  in  the  open 
air  six  to  eight  hours  a  day,  sleep  in  it  if  possible.  She 
does  not  require  any  drugs.  As  soon  as  her  strength 
permits  she  should  have  regular  and  ordered  exercise. 
I  am  reporting  also  to  Lord  Lyssons. 

"  Sincerely, 

"  TOM  SHORTER." 

Lady  Wagner  was  justly  indignant  with  this  letter; 
it  was  a  bomb-shell  cast  into  all  her  preparations,  her 
summer  arrangements.  She  only  received  it  when  she 
came  home  late  that  ,night,  and  it  made  her  so  angry 
that  she  had  to  take  bromide  herself  to  induce  sleep. 

At  first,  when  she  woke  the  next  morning,  she  thought 
she  would  take  no  notice  of  the  letter  at  all,  but  go 


io8  CONCERT   PITCH 

straight  on  as  if  nothing  had  happened.  After  she  had 
drunk  her  chocolate,  however,  she  remembered  the  report 
had  gone  to  Lord  Lyssons.  She  sent  a  note  round  to 
Lady  Sallust  before  she  got  up : 

"  I  am  in  dreadful  trouble.  Do,  dear  Lady  Sallust, 
come  round  and  talk  things  over  with  me.  Or  I  would 
come  to  you.  ..." 

The  lawyers  had  been  hard  at  work  all  these  weeks; 
everything  was  in  train,  if  not  actually  complete. 

Lady  Sallust,  who  was  at  Stone  House  within  the  hour, 
was  almost  as  annoyed  as  Lcetitia,  when  she  heard  what 
had  occurred,  and  backed  her  up  in  her  decision  to  ignore 
the  letter  and  the  recommendation  it  contained.  "  Miss 
Wagner  was  quite  well  this  morning,"  her  maid  reported ; 
she  was  "  already  up."  It  would  be  quite  easy  to  get  a 
different  opinion  from  Sir  Hubert's  doctor,  Sir  William 
Bellairs,  who  made  his  enormous  income,  and  had  ob- 
tained his  knighthood,  for  prescribing  to  fashionable 
patients  the  change  of  air,  or  scene,  or  companion  they 
desired.  The  two  ladies  decided  this  would  be  the  best 
course  to  take.  To  send  at  once  for  Sir  William,  and 
have  his  authority  for  saying  that  there  was  no  reason  to 
postpone  the  ceremony,  no  reason  at  all. 

Before  Lady  Sallust  left  the  house  an  urgent  messenger 
was  dispatched.  Sir  William  broke  through  his  rule  of 
never  going  out  in  the  morning  and  came  back  in  the 
motor  they  sent  for  him. 

Sir  William  Bellairs,  who  was  mild  and  spectacled  and 
elderly,  said,  when  Manuella  came  down  to  him,  to  Lady 
Wagner's  boudoir: 

"  So  this  is  the  bride-elect?  And  she  is  not  very  well, 
you  say?  We  must  see  what  is  to  be  done.  Dear,  dear, 
she  is  very  thin !  Undo  your  bodice,  my  dear  child !  " 

He,  too,  sounded  her  lungs.  That  is  to  say,  he  rested 
his  stethoscope  on  her  back,  whilst  he  exchanged  ameni- 
ties with  Lcetitia.  Afterwards  he  put  a  question  or  two 
to  her,  and  said: 

"  Just  so !    As  I  thought,  as  I  anticipated." 

Loetitia  said  sweetly: 


CONCERT    PITCH  109 

"  Then  you  agree  with  me,  Sir  William  ?  " 

And  Sir  William  answered: 

"  Quite  so ;  quite  so ;  exactly.  Now  I  think  we  will 
send  this  young  lady  upstairs  again  and  have  our  little 
talk." 

Manuella  went  upstairs  again;  her  head  still  ached, 
and  over  and  over  again  she  wondered  if  Lord  Lyssons 
knew  she  thought  of  him  day  and  night,  wondered  about 
him  .  .  .  and  marriage,  counted  the  weeks  and  days. 

But  she  had  not  wanted  the  marriage  hastened.  She 
was  one  burning  blush  when  she  thought  he  had  attrib- 
uted all  this  hurry  to  her.  Of  course,  he  did  not  care  for 
her.  In  that  angry  scene  downstairs,  and  once  before, 
Loetitia  had  let  fall  an  unguarded  word.  It  was  because 
her  father  was  giving  her  a  fortune  that  he  wished  to 
marry  her.  It  was  terrible,  dreadful,  unbearable.  She 
did  not  want  to  marry  him  if  he  did  not  care  for  her. 
She  cried  all  that  morning,  and  by  the  afternoon  her 
headache  was  worse. 

Meanwhile  Lady  Wagner  "  hastened  to  write "  a 
charming  little  letter  to  Lord  Lyssons : 

"  I  am  so  glad  to  be  able  to  tell  you  that  Sir  William 
Bellairs  has  been  here  this  morning  and  finds  very  little 
indeed  wrong  with  Manuella.  We  are  going  to  absolve 
her  from  all  her  social  duties  between  now  and  the  four- 
teenth— which,  I  am  sure,  you  will  be  delighted  to  hear 
remains  the  great  day.  But  I  think,  perhaps,  you  will 
have  to  exert  your  authority.  She  must  really  keep  quiet, 
there  must  be  no  more  scenes,  nor  exciting  interviews 
with  musicians.  The  dear  child  is  so  impulsive,  emo- 
tional. The  man  must  have  imposed  upon  her  good 
nature.  ..." 

She  wound  up  in  good  maternal  style,  with  a  moral 
aphorism  and  a  personal  application,  a  slight  expostula- 
tion, and  an  affectionate  finale.  She  had  always  prided 
herself  on  her  letters,  and  this  one  was  a  masterpiece. 
It  left  no  room  for  argument.  The  wedding  would  be  on 
the  fourteenth. 


CHAPTER  X 

TT  was  characteristic  of  Loetitia  to  connect  Manuella's 
•••  fainting  fits  with  the  visit  of  Harston  Migotti,  and  to 
let  Lord  Lyssons  know  it.  It  is  not  true  that  great  love 
casteth  out  fear,  or,  if  it  be  true,  it  is  only  half  a  truth. 
Unfulfilled  love  breeds  fear.  All  the  time  Waldo  had 
been  fearful  that  he  was  too  old  for  her,  that  she  did  not 
care  for  him,  and  was  being  rushed  into  it,  as  she  had 
been  rushed  into  her  engagement  with  Calingford;  that 
she  might  meet  someone  she  liked  better.  He  was  af- 
fected by  what  Loetitia  hinted,  and  distressed  by  what 
Tom  Shorter  reported  to  him.  He  could  not  see  Man- 
uella,  who  was  keeping  to  her  room ;  he  was  in  half  a 
dozen  minds  about  writing  to  her.  Notwithstanding  that 
reassuring  letter  from  Lady  Wagner,  he  really  did  not 
know  what  was  best  to  be  done  for  Manuella.  He  never 
thought  about  himself  at  all. 

This  was  what  his  friend  Tom  Shorter  had  said  to  him  : 
"  You  can't  marry  the  child  in  three  weeks,  she  is 
unnerved  at  the  prospect,  and  no  wonder!  And  the 
sooner  you  let  her  know  you  have  no  such  intention  the 
better  for  you  both.  I  don't  know  whether  she  cares  for 
you.  You  must  be  nearly  twice  her  age  to  begin  with. 
I  had  a  long  talk  with  her,  and  still  I  don't  know.  I 
only  know  that  she  has  been  living  beyond  her  means, 
beyond  her  physical  and  moral  means.  Her  reserves  have 
been  used  up  by  her  growth,  and  she  has  come  to  the  end 

no 


CONCERT    PITCH  in 

of  her  overdraft.  She  is  as  near  bankruptcy  as  a  girl 
can  be.  Marriage  is  madness  for  her.  She  ought  to 
be  running  about  in  a  pinafore  with  a  hoop  and 
stick." 

He  then  went  into  physiological  details,  which  made 
Lord  Lyssons  very  hot  and  anxious  to  get  away  from 
him  as  quickly  as  possible.  He  understood  he  was  not  to 
see  his  fiancee  for  a  few  days,  that  she  would  remain  in 
bed.  He  wanted  to  pass  away  the  time,  to  get  the  taste 
of  this  conversation  out  of  his  mouth.  That  was  why 
he  went  to  another  old  friend,  a  clergyman,  who  was 
ignorant  of  physiology  but  learned  about  brasses.  Waldo 
thought  brasses  might  suit  his  mood,  which  was  not  a 
happy  one. 

When  he  came  back  he  had  left  off  hating  Tom  Shorter, 
but  he  was  still  uncertain  as  to  rushing  the  girl  into 
marrying  him.  He  had  forgotten  the  lawyers,  her  for- 
tune, and  its  convenience  to  him;  he  was  only  thinking 
of  the  difference  in  their  ages,  and  that  she  might  meet 
a  younger  man,  a  better  looking  one.  Not  the  musician, 
of  course.  But  when  he  thought  of  him  he  had  a  twinge, 
very  like  jealousy,  of  which  he  was  ashamed. 

On  his  return  from  visiting  the  Rev.  Richard  Blaki- 
stone,  he  did  not  go  straight  home  to  his  rooms  in  the 
"  Albany,"  but  dropped  in  to  a  house  in  St.  James's 
Place,  where  an  American  journalist,  who  had  insinuated 
himself  so  cleverly  into  London  Society,  that  now  he 
appeared  to  belong  to  it,  dispensed  cocktails  and  dis- 
seminated up-to-date  gossip  between  six  and  eight 
o'clock.  Waldo  had  an  irrational  desire  to  know  what 
people  were  saying  about  him,  or  about  the  Wagners, 
or  whether  they  were  saying  anything.  The  rooms  in 
St.  James's  Place  were  a  recognized  rendezvous — open 
house  where  no  ceremony  need  be  observed — everybody 
went  there.  It  was  said  that  Parsons  had  an  unequalled 
knowledge  of  the  compounding  of  cocktails.  Waldo 
knew  very  little  of  Jerry  Parsons,  and  nothing  but  this 
in  his  favour.  But  he  was  in  the  humour  for  a  cocktail, 
and  he  hoped  to  gather  what  people  were  saying;  he 


ii2  CONCERT   PITCH 

was  too  nervous  to  go  home.  There  might  be  a  letter 
from  her  to  him  there,  contradicting  or  corroborating 
Lretitia.  Would  she  marry  him  in  three  weeks?  He 
did  not  know,  nor  if  he  should  persuade  her  to  it. 

He  had  a  "  Dry  Martini  "  cunningly  mixed  and  shaken, 
and  certainly  agreeable  to  the  palate.  He  heard  a  great 
deal  of  gossip,  was  chaffed  a  little  about  ceasing  to  be  a 
Benedict,  and  warned  of  restrictions  in  store  for  him. 
Many  of  his  friends  were  present.  It  is  possible,  because 
his  mood  was  curious,  and  his  plans  uncertain,  and  his 
glass  constantly  replenished,  that  he  drank  more  than 
he  knew. 

Anyway,  when  Jerry  Parsons,  in  his  American  accent, 
said: 

"  I  saw  your  fiancee  this  morning,  by  the  way,  in 
Kensington  Gardens.  I  don't  know  the  man  who  was 
with  her — long-haired  fellow,  probably  a  poet.  No,  it 
was  not  your  cousin  Gilbert,  this  was  a  much  better- 
looking  fellow,"  Waldo  replied  with  sufficient  lightness, 
and  left  without  marked  abruptness. 

The  valet,  who  was  waiting  in  Lord  Lyssons'  bedroom, 
with  the  dress-clothes  spread  on  the  bed,  various  cans  of 
hot  water,  and  a  bath  in  readiness,  was  unable  to  keep 
his  evening  appointment. 

Lord  Lyssons  came  in,  walked  up  and  down  the  sit- 
ting-room for  ten  minutes,  and  went  out  again  without 
dressing,  or  saying  anything.  He  was  a  most  unsatis- 
factory gentleman  to  wait  upon,  and  "  very  irregular  in 
his  'abits !  " 

The  motor  was  at  the  door  of  Stone  House,  the  two 
acetylene  lamps  shining  and  casting  deep  shadows.  For 
some  inexplicable  reason,  although  he  had  hurried  to  get 
there,  Lord  Lyssons  did  not  at  once  ring  the  bell,  but 
waited  in  the  shadow.  Now  the  door  opened,  and  he 
could  see  inside  the  electrically-lit  hall.  The  maid  helped 
Lady  Wagner  into  her  lace  and  ermine  opera  cape;  the 
man  gave  Sir  Hubert  his  satin-lined  coat,  pulled  it  down 
at  the  back,  adjusted  it  nicely.  The  butler  was  in  wait- 
ing, flanked  by  two  footmen. 


CONCERT    PITCH 

At  the  gates,  as  the  motor  went  through,  a  woman 
of  the  town  stood,  like  a  dishevelled  Peri,  envying  Loe- 
titia's  diamond  tiara  and  the  luxurious  motor.  Waldo 
heard  the  patrolling  policeman  say  sharply  to  her: 

"  Now  then,  what  are  you  doing  here  ?  You  get 
along." 

He  came  out  of  the  shadows  after  that  and  went  up  to 
the  still-open  door.  The  butler,  very  respectful  and  dig- 
nified, explained  that  Sir  Hubert  and  Lady  Wagner  had 
already  left  the  house.  They  were  dining  with  Lord  and 
Lady  Alistairs  in  Carlton  House  Terrace.  .  .  . 

"Is  Miss  Wagner  better?" 

"  I  believe  so,  milord." 

"Is  she  at  home?" 

Miss  Wagner  was  at  home.  The  servants  were  ob- 
viously surprised  that  his  lordship  should  linger,  more 
surprised  when  he  called  to  Lady  Wagner's  maid,  who 
was  just  moving  off  after  the  completion  of  her  arduous 
duties. 

"  Ask  Miss  Wagner  if  she  can  see  me,  will  you?  Tell 
her  I  won't  keep  her  ten  minutes."  It  was  strange  that 
his  lordship  knew  no  better. 

"  I  will  find  Miss  Wagner's  maid,"  she  said  primly, 
disapprovingly.  She  was  very  like  her  mistress. 

The  butler  and  the  two  footmen,  who  knew  his  lord- 
ship had  a  lavish  way  with  half-sovereigns,  showed  him 
into  the  morning-room  on  the  ground  floor. 

"  This  way,  milord.  I'll  see  myself  that  the  message 
gets  conveyed."  The  butler  was  quite  confidential,  and 
duly  rewarded. 

The  room,  oak-panelled,  and  hung  with  mezzotints  by 
J.  R.  Smith  and  William  Ward,  by  Grozer  and  Dean, 
after  pictures  of  women  by  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds,  was  Sir 
Hubert's  own  sanctum.  There  was  a  big  writing-table, 
elaborately  set  out  with  blotter  and  huge  inkstand,  cal- 
endar and  pen-rack;  but  there  were  no  papers  or  sign 
of  work.  A  big  Chippendale  bookcase,  easy-chairs  up- 
holstered in  green  leather,  and  a  large  sofa,  added  some- 
thing to  the  room's  impressiveness. 


ii4  CONCERT    PITCH 

"  Can  I  bring  you  anything,  milord  ?  " 

"  Yes."  The  cocktails  had  made  him  thirsty.  "  Bring 
me  a  whisky  and  soda." 

Manuella  had  spent  a  day  in  bed,  then  a  day  or  two 
in  her  room,  wondering  if  Waldo  would  call  or  write, 
show  some  interest  in  her  health.  She  did  not  know 
that  Dr.  Shorter  had  advised  her  wedding  should  be 
postponed,  although  she  knew  that  whatever  he  had  said 
Sir  William  had  contradicted.  When  Waldo  neither  came 
nor  wrote  she  was  something  more  than  disappointed, 
her  worst  fears  seemed  confirmed. 

On  the  third  day  of  her  seclusion  she  had  the  strangest 
possible  letter  from  Harston  Migotti,  asking  her  to  meet 
him,  saying  he  had  hung  about  the  door  hoping  to  see 
her,  that  he  had  something  he  must  say  to  her.  She  did 
not  answer  the  letter,  because,  before  she  had  time  to  do 
so,  she  met  him  accidentally.  It  was  the  morning  when 
Lord  Lyssons  came  back  to  London.  Her  headache 
better,  but  not  gone,  tired  of  her  room,  wearied  of  her 
thoughts,  not  exactly  unhappy,  but  restless,  taking  her 
maid  with  her,  she  went  for  a  walk  in  the  Park.  She 
would  have  ridden,  but  walking  was  less  trouble.  It  was 
warm  and  sunny,  and  her  spirits  revived  directly  she  was 
outside  the  house.  She  had  not  an  idea  of  meeting  any- 
one, although  it  was  true  that  Lord  Lyssons  was  an 
early  riser.  She  met  the  young  musician  before  she  had 
been  walking  ten  minutes,  and  was  glad.  It  saved  her 
from  answering  his  letter,  and  over  and  over  again  she 
had  wanted  to  tell  him  how  sorry  and  ashamed  she  had 
been  of  her  stepmother's  behaviour,  and  to  assure  him  of 
her  continued  interest  in  his  opera.  She  showed  her 
pleasure  in  the  encounter,  perhaps  too  plainly,  or  perhaps 
he  was  misled  by  his  own  feelings  and  took  hers  for 
granted. 

"  May  I  walk  a  little  with  you  ?  "  he  asked,  after  the 
preliminaries  had  been  got  through. 

"  Of  course.  I  am  going  into  Kensington  Gardens. 
Isn't  it  a  lovely  morning?  You'll  tell  me  about  the 
opera,  won't  you?  I  meant  to  write  to  you,  but  I've 
been  ill." 


CONCERT    PITCH  115 

He  talked  of  the  opera ;  the  libretto  was  finished,  also 
the  overture,  and  many  of  the  numbers.  The  maid  be- 
haved as  discreetly  as  French  Tnaids  are  in  the  habit  of 
doing.  They  were  alone  under  the  trees  when  he  began 
by  saying  he  hoped  she  had  not  been  reproached  upon 
his  account  the  other  day,  and  to  tell  her  that  the  hour 
he  spent  with  her  had  been  the  happiest  in  his  life. 

"  It  is  the  inspiration  for  which  I  have  been  waiting. 
I  knew  it  then,  or  even  before  that.  I  know  it  better 
now." 

To  her  intense  surprise  he  burst  out  that  he  loved 
her,  that  he  believed  they  were  in  sympathy,  that  she 
understood  him. 

"  You  will  listen  to  my  music,  and  I  shall  dedicate 
it  to  you ;  you  will  sing  my  songs."  She  was  shocked 
and  tried  to  stop  him,  agitated,  and  tried  to  reason  with 
him,  wanted  to  get  up  and  run  away.  He  poured  out 
impassioned  phrases. 

"  It  is  because  it  is  new  to  you,  you  did  not  know  I 
loved  you ;  I  did  not  know  it  myself.  '  They  never  loved 
who  loved  not  at  first  sight,'  as  your  poet  said.  Of  course 
it  was  that." 

All  she  wanted  was  to  get  away,  she  did  not  know  how 
to  answer  him.  Although  agitated  and  half  frightened, 
she  was  very  sorry  for  him,  and  anxious  not  to  hurt  his 
feelings.  She  was  never  so  glad  in  her  life  as  when  the 
discreet  French  maid  came  forward  and  said  it  was  timeN 
they  went  home,  for  it  was  nearing  the  lunch  hour.  She' 
said  incoherently  that  she  was  dreadfully  sorry,  and  she 
was  sure  he  could  not  mean  it. 

"  I  am  afraid  it  is  awfully  late ;  we  shall  have  to  drive 
home  even  now.  I  can't  stay.  ..." 

"  But  I  must  see  you  again." 

He  understood  her  to  say  she  was  sure  they  would 
meet  again.  When  they  parted  he  had  not  an  idea  he  had 
been  rejected.  It  was  natural  she  should  be  agitated. 
He  was  himself  agitated,  excited,  exhilarated ;  this  was 
quite  different  from  the  ordinary  emotions.  He  had,  of 
course,  been  in  love  before,  but  never  like  this,  never  in 
the  least  like  this. 


n6  CONCERT    PITCH 

Manuella  escaped  from  him  with  her  maid.  She  was 
very  sorry  for  him,  and  astonished  he  should  be  in  love 
with  her  after  having-  seen  her  only  three  times.  When 
she  had  got  over  the  amazement  of  it,  and  was  once 
more  in  her  own  room,  she  was  perhaps  a  little  flattered. 
Supposing  it  had  been  Lord  Lyssons  who  had  said  such 
things  to  her,  such  wonderful  things !  The  supposition 
grew  into  daydreams  that  were  like  fairy  tales,  and 
lasted  through  lunch  time  and  the  afternoon. 

"  You  are  the  light  of  my  life,  my  inspiration ;  I  do 
not  love,  I  adore  you."  These  were  the  things  the 
strange  young  man  had  said  to  her  under  the  trees. 

Supposing  Lord  Lyssons  had  uttered  them !  Lord 
Lyssons  being  an  Englishman,  without  that  admixture 
of  Italian  blood  and  sentimental  German  training  to 
which  Harston  Migotti  owed  his  eloquence,  was  very 
unlikely  ever  to  indulge  in  such  rhapsodies.  But,  igno- 
rant of  ethnology,  she  had  her  happy  dreaming. 

And,  because  she  was  always  highly  imaginative  and  a 
creature  of  moods,  it  seemed  like  the  continuation  of  her 
afternoon  dreaming  when  Claire  came  up  to  her  in  the 
evening,  just  when  she  was  preparing  to  go  to  bed  and 
dream  there,  to  say  Lord  Lyssons  was  below,  and  wished 
to  speak  with  her.  She  had  not  seen  him  for  three  days, 
and  now  she  heard  he  was  here. 

She  ran  down  impulsively,  never  stopping  to  change 
her  dress,  or  adjust  her  hair,  just  as  if  she  had  been 
sixteen  instead  of  eighteen  and  without  any  of  the  ad- 
vantages of  Lcetitia's  training.  She  was  never  quite  such 
a  child  again  after  this  evening;  her  fine  impulsiveness 
and  high  courage  were  ingrained  in  her,  but  something  of 
her  ignorance  fell  away,  of  her  fearless  innocence. 

She  ran  down  when  she  heard  Lord  Lyssons  was 
waiting  in  the  library  to  see  her,  her  luxuriant  hair  in  a 
loose  knot  low  on  her  neck.  She  actually  wore  that  old 
school  blouse,  the  red  one  in  which  he  had  first  seen 
her.  She  had  outgrown  it  and  it  was  open  at  the  throat, 
the  slender  girlish  throat,  on  which  the  lovely  head  was 
set  so  superbly.  Never  had  he  seen  her  look  more  charm- 


CONCERT    PITCH  117 

ing,  more  attractive.  And  his  eyes  were  a  little  hot. 
He  tried  to  collect  himself: 

'  Hallo !  that  you  ?  " 

'  Who  did  you  think  it  was  ?  " 

'  So  you're  better  ?  " 

'  I'm  quite  all  right." 

'  And  the  wedding  need  not  be  put  off." 

'  Was  it  going  to  be?  " 

'  You  don't  mean  to  say  you  didn't  know  Shorter 
ordered  it  off.  Bellairs  says  there  is  nothing  at  all  the 
matter  with  you.  Are  you  glad  or  sorry  there  is  to  be 
no  postponement  ?  " 

He  had  drunk  whisky  and  soda  on  the  top  of  the  cock- 
tails and  it  had  loosened  his  tongue.  She  went  pale,  but 
her  colour  came  back  more  quickly  and  overwhelmingly 
than  it  fled. 

"  That  depends  on  what  you  are." 

"  Oh  !  does  it  ?  Am  I  glad  or  sorry  ?  Let  me  think,  I 
suppose  I  ought  to  have  no  doubt  about  it.  ...  " 

Never,  never  in  any  crisis  of  his  life,  could  Waldo 
Lyssons  find  the  appropriate  word. 

Manuella,  standing  when  he  first  began  to  question 
her,  now  took  the  corner  of  the  sofa.  The  red  blouse, 
her  dark  hair,  and  pale  face,  against  the  green  leather, 
made  a  picture  Nicholson  would  have  liked  to  paint. 

He  told  her  so,  going  over  to  where  she  sat,  flinging 
himself  into  the  opposite  corner. 

He  thought  he  saw  fear,  fear  of  him,  in  her  eyes,  and 
that  she  shrank  further  into  her  corner. 

"  Of  course  you  hate  the  idea  of  being  married,  you 
don't  care  a  bit  about  me  ?  " 

He  may  have  been  mistaken  in  thinking  she  shrank 
from  him ;  she  was  sitting  quite  still  now.  His  long  arm 
went  out,  and  he  drew  her  towards  him.  She  may  have 
been  reluctant,  or  too  surprised  for  resistance,  but  he 
drew  her  face  to  his  own,  and  found  her  lips,  her  gen- 
erous responsive  lips.  He  sought  her  lips  and  found 
them.  Now  he  forgot  she  was  a  child  and  remembered 
only  that  she  was  soon  to  be  his  wife.  He  held  her 


n8  CONCERT    PITCH 

tightly,  kissing  her  long  and  her  heart  went  out  to  him  as 
if  it  were  water  flowing.  It  seemed  like  that  because  she 
had  no  resentment  of  that  long  kiss  ;  she  yielded  to  it,  and 
felt  the  warmth  stealing  through  her.  She  wanted  to  hide 
her  eyes,  not  her  lips,  from  him.  When  at  length  he  re- 
leased her,  she  hid  both  lips  and  eyes  on  his  shoulder, 
she  was  warmed  all  through  and  tingling.  They  sat  like 
that  a  long  time. 

"  We  know  now,  don't  we  ?  "  he  whispered. 

When  he  began  to  speak,  his  tongue  halted,  his  words 
were  lame ;  they  were  elliptical  words  and  few,  not  in  the 
least  like  Harston  Migotti's  fiery  eloquence.  But  she 
would  have  understood,  she  would  surely  have  under- 
stood, because  she  as  surely  responded.  She  never  knew 
what  he  said,  but  that  she  answered,  "  I  love  you,  I  love 
you,"  feverishly  in  answer  to  something,  she  was  sure; 
cruelly  sure,  as  the  event  proved. 

She  had  her  head  on  his  shoulder  and  her  eyes  hidden, 
and  her  words,  although  whispered,  were  loud  in  her  ears : 

"  /  love  you." 

What  was  happening?  He  put  her  away  from  him 
quickly,  abruptly.  He  had  risen  and  was  no  longer 
beside  her  on  the  sofa,  her  eyes  were  no  longer  hidden, 
and  the  vibration  of  her  words  was  loud  in  the  room. 
Discordant  and  harsh  against  it  she  heard  her  step- 
mother's voice,  her  stepmother's  astonished  voice : 

"  Manuella !    Waldo  !    At  this  hour  !  on  the  sofa  ..." 

Manuella  gave  a  short,  confused  laugh : 

"  Well !  this  time,  at  least,  it  is  not  an  itinerant  musi- 
cian." 

"  A  vagrant  peer,"  put  in  Lord  Lyssons  quickly. 

"  I  must  confess,  I  am  surprised." 

"  Always  been  like  that,  from  my  cradle  upward — be- 
fore, I  believe.  Can't  see  a  pretty  girl  without  kissing 
her  ...  " 

A  greater  libel  upon  himself  could  not  have  been 
uttered,  nor  any  sentence  more  incongruous  with  his 
mood.  He  wanted  to  cover  his  mood  and  hers,  to  protect 
her  from  Lcetitia's  tongue.  That  secret  he  had  surprised 


CONCERT    PITCH  119 

was  for  themselves  alone,  the  secret  so  exquisite  and  new. 
She  would  give  herself  to  him!  He  could  not  think 
coherently,  far  less  speak.  He  still  felt  her  head  on  his 
shoulder,  the  warm  young  generous  lips  against  his  own. 

"Rotten  of  me,  isn't  it?  I  am  always  doing  things 
like  that.  I  suppose  I  ought  not  to  have  come  at 
all." 

"  It  is  a  surprise  to  me,  a  most  unpleasant  surprise. 
Sir  Hubert  became  suddenly  unwell,  we  were  compelled 
to  return.  Then,  to  find  you  here,  Manuella  alone  with 
you  ...  in  deshabille!" 

"  I  agree,  I  thoroughly  agree,  the  whole  affair  is  most 
reprehensible." 

"  She  was  ordered  complete  rest,  early  hours.  Sir 
William  was  most  particular  that  she  should  keep  her 
room." 

He  must  stand  between  her  and  this  woman's  tongue, 
say  anything  to  silence  her : 

"  There  is  not  the  shadow  of  an  excuse  for  me.  I 
quite  agree  with  you.  But  I  heard  she  was  out  this 
morning.  ..." 

"  Out  ? " 

"  In  Kensington  Gardens,  with  that  itinerant  musician 
of  hers."  He  had  no  longer  the  slightest  fear  of  the 
young  man,  the  slightest  jealousy;  her  lips  had  told  him 
all  that  he  wished  to  know.  "  So  I  thought  I  had  better 
come  and  see  that  he  had  not  cut  me  out."  The  lightness 
of  his  speech  was  inconceivable. 

"  In  Kensington  Gardens,  with — with  that  person ! 
Manuella,  surely  this  disgraceful  story  is  not  true?  I 
understood  you  were  keeping  your  room " 

"  Disgraceful !  Come  now,  come  now,  Lady  Wagner. 
Why  shouldn't  she  walk  in  the  Park  with  him?  If  he 
were  not  itinerant,  he  wouldn't  walk.  You  agree  with 
me  there,  surely.  Sit  down;  let  us  talk  about  the  wed- 
ding. You  wrote  me  it  was  not  to  be  put  off.  Manuella 
here  says  she  is  glad  of  it.  Shorter  is  an  ass.  I've  been 
stopping  away,  thinking  whether  I  ought  not  to  take  his 
advice,  notwithstanding  the  great  Bellairs.  .  .  .  And  now 


120  CONCERT    PITCH 

I  hear  she  is  just  like  you,  would  not  have  it  put  off  for 
anything.  ..." 

Manuella  had  hardly  heard  a  word,  until  loud  and  clear 
as  her  own  words  in  the  room  she  heard  these.  She  had 
been  stunned  to  deafness  by  his  others. 

"  I  can't  see  a  pretty  girl  without  kissing  her." 

Was  that  what  it  meant,  all  it  meant?  And  she  had 
said  :  "  /  love  you  "  to  him.  The  flood  of  her  heart  that 
had  gone  out  to  him  ebbed  slowly,  painfully  back,  icy 
cold,  stopping  her  breath,  submerging  and  stunning 
her. 

"She  is  just  like  you,  would  not  have  it  put  off  for 
anything." 

She  was  being  forced  on  him,  and  she  had  told  him 
that  she  loved  him.  He  could  tell  her  stepmother,  make 
light  of  it !  She  burned  with  shame,  choked  with  shame. 

She  never  heard  what  her  stepmother  had  to  say  of  her 
meeting  with  the  musician,  nor  understood  that  her  true 
lover  was  but  trying  to  protect  her,  give  her  time  to 
recover  herself.  She  only  wanted  never  to  hear  his  voice 
again,  never  to  hear  him  speak.  Her  hatred  of  her  step- 
mother was  as  nothing  compared  with  her  hatred  of  him, 
as  he  stood  there,  and,  as  she  imagined,  made  fun  of  what 
had  happened  between  them,  of  that  kiss,  the  flood  of  love 
that  had  carried  her  to  him.  What  had  been  born  in  her 
with  that  long  and  tender  kiss  died,  died  in  agony,  not 
to  be  revived  for  many  a  long,  misguided  day. 

"  I  don't  want  to  marry  you  in  three  weeks,  or  at  all. 
...  I  never  said  I  wouldn't  have  it  put  off  for  any- 
thing." Her  cheeks  were  scarlet,  her  eyes  burning. 

It  was  to  Waldo  she  spoke,  but  Lcetitia  could  not 
understand  about  the  morning  walk  and  pursued  the 
subject  relentlessly. 

"  You  are  surely  not  going  to  permit  her  to  continue 
her  acquaintance  with  that  person." 

Waldo  tried  to  divert  her,  and  said  that  he  did  not 
suppose  Manuella  would  be  satisfied  with  his  own  com- 
panionship ;  jested,  and  said  for  his  part  he  wasn't  musi- 
cal, couldn't  grow  his  hair  long ;  Manuella's  taste  was,  of 


CONCERT    PITCH  121 

course,  strange.  Then  he  mimicked  Lcetitia's  speech. 
"  Live  and  let  live.  She  must  indulge  her  tastes,  and  I 
mine;  you  cannot  put  old  heads  upon  young  shoul- 
ders. ..." 

Manuella  misunderstood  everything.  He  had  but  meant 
to  play  lightning  conductor,  to  bring  the  storm  lightly 
and  safely  down  upon  himself,  but  it  was  a  complete 
failure.  Manuella,  in  the  anguish  of  her  reaction,  said 
the  most  inconceivable  things ;  that  she  hated  Lord  Lys- 
sons  and  did  not  want  to  marry  him  at  all,  that  she  should 
meet  Harston  Migotti  whenever  she  liked,  that  she  knew 
he  loved  her,  and  was  proud  of  it.  ... 

The  summer  rain  and  lightning  became  winter  sleet  and 
ice.  Lcetitia  forgot  the  altered  position,  spoke  to  the  girl 
in  the  old  way.  She  said  she  was  "  not  surprised  " ;  she 
was  coldly  disgusted  and  acrimonious. 

"  It  is  of  course  Lord  Lyssons'  concern  if  he  permits 
you  to  continue  this  extraordinary  acquaintance." 

Waldo  laughed  when  Manuella  said  she  hated  him ; 
that  Harston  Migotti  was  in  love  with  her,  and  she  proud 
of  it.  He  knew  she  did  not  mean  what  she  said,  and 
although  she  had  obviously  lost  her  temper,  he  thought 
it  was  only  with  Lcetitia,  and  was  not  surprised. 

He  bantered  her  and  said  he  was  sorry  he  was  so  objec- 
tionable. Perhaps  she  would  think  it  over  and  let  him 
know  in  the  morning  if  she  was  of  the  same  opinion. 

"  I  may  look  better  in  the  morning.  You  '  never  can 
tell,'  as  Bernard  Shaw  says.  Wait  and  see ;  you  may 
change  your  mind  again.  You  were  quite  fond  of  me 
an  hour  or  two  ago;  it  may  return." 

Lcetitia  would  certainly  not  leave  them  alone  again,  it 
seemed  there  was  only  one  thing  to  do,  to  get  away. 

He  had  his  misgivings  about  leaving  the  girl  with  her ; 
misgivings  to  be  most  fully  realized,  but  he  thought  they 
had  been  too  close  for  anyone  to  come  between  them  now. 
For  all  his  light  talk  and  banter,  that  kiss  had  meant  at 
least  as  much  to  him  as  to  Manuella.  The  woman's  talk 
about  the  musician  was  absurd,  out  of  place;  Manuella 
would  know  he  took  no  heed  of  it.  To-morrow  he  would 


122  CONCERT    PITCH 

see  her  alone  again,  try  to  tell  her  something  of  what  he 
felt  for  her,  what  her  kiss  had  meant  to  him.  But  he 
thought  she  understood;  she  had  already  flushed  to 
womanhood  in  his  arms.  He  knew  his  were  arms  to  hold 
her  against  herself,  against  the  world ;  she  needed  under- 
standing, sympathy — everything  she  had  never  had.  And 
he  would  give  all  this  to  her,  full  measure,  brimming 
over. 


CHAPTER  XI 

LORD  LYSSONS  had  not  the  least  idea  that  it  was 
he,  and  not  her  stepmother,  who  had  hurt  the  girl 
— so  hurt  her  that  Loetitia,  although  she  said  all  the 
wrong  things,  not  only  that  evening  and  the  next  morn- 
ing, reiterating  them,  was  only  partly  responsible  for  the 
result. 

"  Directly  my  back  is  turned  you  do  something  out- 
rageous. Either  I  find  you  sitting  with  a  strange  young 
man,  or  together  on  the  sofa  like — like  a  cook  and  a 
policeman.  No  wonder  Lord  Lyssons  thinks  lightly  of 
you.  If  it  had  not  been  for  me,  the  wedding  would 
have  been  put  off,  perhaps  abandoned.  I  knew  what 
was  behind  that  letter  from  Dr.  Shorter.  He  wanted 
it  postponed — told  the  man  what  to  say.  I  wonder  how 
many  people  saw  you  walking  in  the  Park  with  that 
person.  I  don't  know  where  your  sense  is,  your  sense  of 
shame.  Was  it  not  enough  that  you  should  have  behaved 
so  disgracefully  to  Lord  Calingford,  to  the  Duke  of 
Banff?  Let  me  tell  you,  we  were  astonished — yes,  and 
very  grateful,  when  Lord  Lyssons  came  forward.  It  was 
not  easy,  don't  imagine  it  was  easy.  Lady  Sallust  spoke 
to  him  and  then  to  me.  Your  father  promised  he  would 
do  as  much  as  he  would  have  done  for  the  Duke.  You 
are  the  most  ungrateful  girl  I  think  I  have  ever  met,  and 
I  have  had  some  experience  with  girls.  You  must  have 
been  mad  when  you  talked  as  you  did  last  night.  Of 

123 


I24  CONCERT    PITCH 

course,  I  can  make  allowances;  you  were  startled  when 
you  knew  Lord  Lyssons  heard  of  your  escapade ;  I  don't 
wonder  at  it.  But  he  is  a  very  honourable  person,  al- 
though .eccentric  and  greatly  in  need  of  money.  He 
will  forgive  you,  I  have  no  doubt  he  will  forgive  you,  if 
you  take  back  all  you  said;  you  ought  to  go  down  on 
your  knees  to  him.  ..." 

This  was  not  all  she  said,  not  nearly  all,  but  the  rest 
was  on  the  same  note,  hardening  Manuella,  although  she 
only  heard  half  of  it.  Manuella  did  not  want  Lord  Lys- 
sons to  forgive  her,  she  wanted  to  be  able  to  hurt  him. 
There  were  hours  in  the  night  when  she  could  not  bear 
that  he  should  be  in  the  world  at  all,  when  she  wished  he 
were  dead.  Because  she  had  said  "  I  love  you  "  to  him, 
and  he  had  laughed !  Perhaps  it  would  hurt  him  to  know 
he  was  not  going  to  have  her  money.  She  would  not 
marry  him,  not  if  there  was  not  another  man  in  the 
world,  whereas  there  was  any  number  of  them,  and  one, 
Mr.  Harston  Migotti,  had  written  her  this  morning  to 
say  that  he  adored  her,  asking  her  to  run  away  with 
him. 

When  Lord  Lyssons  came,  she  could  think  of  nothing 
but  how  to  obliterate  what  she  had  told  him.  She  went 
down  to  see  him  in  the  smaller  drawing-room.  He  looked 
very  tall  and  thin,  and  his  expression  was  kind.  She 
knew  that,  and  that  there  was  no  one  like  him.  She 
looked  away  from  him  because  she  knew  it;  the  glass 
he  was  continually  trying  to  keep  in  his  eye,  that  he  was 
replacing  only  this  minute,  could  not  disguise  it.  She 
tried  to  see  his  faults,  to  criticize  him.  He  was  not  a 
dressy  man,  and  if  his  valet  did  his  hair  he  ought  to  have 
changed  his  valet.  He  had  rowed  when  he  was  young, 
and  his  hands  were  oarsman's  hands.  It  was  impossible 
she  had  liked  him  to  kiss  her.  She  contrasted  him  with 
Harston  Migotti,  who  had  fallen  in  love  with  her  at  first 
sight,  and  now  wished  her  to  run  away  with  him.  She 
forced  herself  to  remember  his  Beethoven  brown  and 
golden  hair,  his  ardent  eyes.  She  had  such  a  pain  in  her 
heart  when  she  turned  away  from  Lord  Lyssons  and  con- 


CONCERT   PITCH  125 

trasted  him  with  Harston  Migotti  that  she  could  not 
speak.  She  was  afraid  to  face  him,  she  wished  he  would 
go  away,  and  bewildered  him  by  her  manner. 

"  But  what  have  I  done  ?  How  have  I  altered  ?  I 
thought  last  night  at  one  time  you  were  rather  fond 
of  me." 

"  Well,  I  wasn't ;  I  was  only  pretending.  ..." 

He  couldn't  understand  it,  suspected  Loetitia,  wavered 
about  what  had  occurred.  He  could  not  have  dreamed 
it,  and  yet  .  .  .  yet !  she  said  now  that  she  hated  him, 
and  had  only  pretended.  He  went  over  and  stood  before 
her. 

"  Look  at  me." 

"  I  don't  want  to  look  at  you."  She  covered  her  face 
with  her  hands,  a  childish  trick. 

He  took  her  hands  down  from  her  face,  ignoring  her 
efforts  to  thrust  him  away  from  her. 

"  Tell  me  the  exact  truth,  the  entire  truth.  I  must  hear 
it.  Look  at  me !  "  But  that  she  could  not  do.  "  Have 
they  forced  me  upon  you  in  the  same  way  they  tried  to 
force  Calingford?  You  don't  like  me  at  all,  you  dislike 
me  ?  You  asked  Shorter  to  get  our  marriage  postponed  ? 
Don't  be  frightened,  tell  me  the  truth;  I  only  want  to 
know  the  truth.  Speak !  " 

Because  those  rough,  strong  oarsman's  hands  of  his, 
and  the  way  he  held  those  struggling  ones  of  hers,  gave 
her  that  catch  in  her  breath,  that  contraction  of  her 
heart,  because  she  feared  his  breath,  and  that  he  might 
kiss  her  again,  and  again  she  might  want  to  hide  her  face 
on  his  shoulder,  because  she  was  overwhelmed  by  her 
feeling,  and  did  not  know  how  long  she  could  disguise 
it ;  she  pushed  him  away  with  all  her  strength. 

"  I  hate  you,  I  hate  you,"  she  said.  But  "  love  "  would 
have  been  the  truer  word. 

He  kissed  her,  notwithstanding  that  she  said  she  hated 
him.  His  lips  rested  a  moment  on  her  hair — strange  that 
she  felt  it  in  her  heart. 

"  Poor  kid !  You  haven't  had  a  chance,  have  you  ? 
Not  a  five  minutes'  start."  His  voice  was  extraordinarily 


126  CONCERT   PITCH 

low,  and  his  manner  had  altered  completely.  Certainly 
he  was  taking  her  seriously  now,  but  it  was  difficult  for 
him  to  change  his  habit  of  speech. 

"  Think  it  over  again.  I'm  afraid  there's  a  devil  of  a 
time  before  you  if  you  don't.  We'll  take  Shorter's  advice 
and  postpone  it.  I'll  go  to  Norway — anywhere — stay 
away  until  the  end  of  the  season.  You  can't  mean  to 
throw  me  over  altogether." 

She  dared  not  look  at  him,  and  thought  of  nothing 
but  how  to  tell  him  that  what  she  said  last  night  was 
not  true;  she  did  not  love  him,  she  hated  him — hated 
him. 

"  I  don't  care  where  you  go  or  what  you  do :  I'm 
not  going  to  marry  you.  I'd  rather  die." 

"  Why  not  walk  ?  "  He  let  go  his  hold  of  her  when 
he  said  it ;  he  hardly  knew  what  he  was  saying. 

It  was  impossible  her  feeling  for  him  could  have 
changed  in  so  short  a  time.  She  would  not  have  kissed 
him  if  she  had  not  loved  him ;  he  knew  that,  and  how 
straight  she  was,  and  impulsive.  He  almost  stumbled 
upon  the  truth. 

"  Look  here !  it  wasn't  anything  I  said,  was  it  ?  Not 
because  I  played  the  fool  with  Lady  Wagner;  trying  to 
mislead  her?" 

"  No !  " 

"  You  are  sure  ?  " 

"  I'm  sure  I  want  you  to  go  away." 

"  You  won't  say  anything  more  than  that,  you  won't 
give  me  a  chance  ?  " 

"  I  can't  say  more  than  that  I  hate  the  sight  of  you." 

"  But  you  didn't — "  he  persisted,  "you  didn't  hate  the 
sight  of  me  last  night." 

That  he  reminded  her  again  was  the  worst  of  all.  She 
became  furious,  and  showed  him  that  ungovernable 
temper  of  which  Loetitia  had  felt  it  her  duty  to  advise 
him.  It  did  not  repel  him,  he  thought  nothing  at  all 
of  it.  She  might  stamp  her  foot  and  flash  her  eyes  and 
say  hard  things  to  him,  but  what  he  wanted  to  know 
was  what  was  at  the  root  of  it.  He  was  more,  not  less, 


CONCERT   PITCH  127 

in  love  with  her  at  the  end  of  the  interview,  and  not 
convinced,  not  really  convinced,  that  she  was  telling  him 
the  truth  when  she  said  she  hated  him. 

"  You  think  you  hate  me.  I  don't  believe  you  do  a 
bit,"  were  almost  his  last  words,  infuriating  her.  And 
as  he  turned  and  left  the  room  slowly,  he  heard  her  say 
it  was  his  conceit,  his  horrid  vanity,  that  made  him 
disbelieve  it.  When  he  had  gone  away  he  thought  he 
heard  her  sobbing,  and  went  back.  But  she  had  shut  the 
door,  and  held  it  against  him;  he  could  not  persist. 
****** 

All  the  hullabaloo  there  had  been  when  she  broke  off 
her  engagement  with  the  Duke  of  Banff  was  doubled  and 
redoubled  when  she  dismissed  Lord  Lyssons  in  this 
summary  fashion.  Lord  Lyssons  did  his  best  for  her. 
As  he  told  her,  he  knew  Lcetitia  would  give  her  a  devil  of 
a  time.  He  left  the  house  after  that  abortive  interview 
without  attempting  to  see  Lady  Wagner.  And  after  he 
had  thought  matters  over  as  well  as  he  was  able  for  his 
pain,  he  wrote: 

"  DEAR  LADY  WAGNER, 

"  I  have  been  thinking  over  that  report  of  Sir 
William's.  It  must,  of  course,  be  a  great  satisfaction  to 
you  to  have  your  judgment  confirmed.  But  I  have  an 
idea  nevertheless  that  Tom  Shorter  is  the  better  man,  that 
we  had  better  stick  to  his  advice.  I'm  sure  a  neat 
paragraph  will  occur  to  you.  You  could  say,  for  instance, 
that  I  have  gone  to  Heligoland  with  a  camera.  Your 
appreciation  of  the  political  situation  will  suggest  an 
explanation  of  why  the  wedding  is  postponed  until  the 
end  of  the  season.  ..." 

What  he  wanted  to  bring  out  was  that  it  was  "  post- 
poned," not  abandoned ;  he  wanted  that  reassurance  for 
himself.  To  Lady  Sallust  he  wrote  also : 

"  BEST  OF  AUNTS, 

"  Have  you  ever  heard  of  the  '  Kinchin  Lay '  ? 
I'm  sure  you  have  not;  it's  East  End  slang,  not  Lime- 


128  CONCERT    PITCH 

house  oratory.  I  can't  play  the  part  I  undertook,  I've 
torn  up  the  copy.  Somerset  House  must  do  its  worst. 
Gilbert  may  have  to  leave  off  writing  poetry  and  take 
to  mathematics,  but  tell  him  not  to  hurry ;  he  can  pursue 
the  high-sounding  hexameter  until  he  hears  again.  Be 
kind  to  the  girl  if  you  get  a  chance." 

Lady  Sallust  did  not  understand  the  letter  at  all  until 
she  had  seen  Lcetitia,  and  then  she  understood  it  less  than 
before. 

The  condition  of  Loetitia's  mind  is  not  difficult  to 
comprehend.  Here  was  the  girl  on  her  hands  again, 
and  probably  a  horrible  scandal  connected  with  her. 
Everybody  knew  or  said  that  the  Duke  of  Banff  had 
thrown  her  over ;  now  Lord  Lyssons  was  leaving  England 
on  the  eve  of  his  marriage.  It  was  entirely  characteristic 
that  Lcetitia  should  attribute  this  last  to  the  discovery  of 
an  intrigue  between  the  girl  and  that  "  mountebank," 
and  express  it  coarsely.  There  are  few  things  as  coarse 
as  the  woman  who  talks  about  her  "  refinement."  Man- 
uella  had  hardly  given  a  serious  thought  to  Harston 
Migotti  until  her  stepmother  accused  her  of  an  intrigue 
with  him.  Afterwards  .  .  .  but  it  were  better  that 
events  should  appear  in  their  sequence. 

When  Lady  Wagner  received  Lord  Lyssons'  letter 
and  realized  the  contumacy  with  which  the  girl  had 
received  her  advice,  she  became  Lcetitia  Briarley  with  a 
refractory  pupil,  the  stepmother  who  had  not  hesitated 
to  use  a  cane,  solitary  confinement,  bread  and  water, 
in  early  efforts  to  subdue  "  one  of  the  worst  children  she 
had  ever  known !  "  She  zvas  one  of  the  worst  children, 
and  she  had  grown  up  into  one  of  the  worst  girls.  Lady 
Wagner  told  her  so  now,  and  in  unmistakable  language. 
She  did  not  condescend  to  argue,  she  threatened.  She 
said  this  "  disgraceful  and  indecent  conduct  "  could  not 
be  permitted,  she  was  not  "  going  to  be  allowed  to  dis- 
grace them  all,  she  had  gone  too  far.  ..." 

Manuella  did  not  even  defy  her  at  first,  maintaining  a 
contemptuous  silence.  When  Lcetitia  spoke  of  Harston 


CONCERT    PITCH  129 

Migotti  and  said  inconceivable  things  about  their  rela- 
tions, the  girl  did  not  even  understand  what  was  being 
implied.  That  her  stepmother  abused  him,  called  him 
a  mountebank  or  an  adventurer,  made  her  hot  in  his 
defence,  but  hardly  in  words :  she  would  not  condescend 
to  defend  him. 

Being  Loetitia,  and  with  that  "  position  to  keep  up  " 
to  which  she  was  never  tired  of  alluding,  the  most  neces- 
sary thing  first  to  be  done  was  to  put  a  face  upon  the 
matter  for  the  public.  Sir  Hubert  had  been  taken  ill 
at  Lady  Alistairs'  dinner;  the  paragraph  disseminated 
by  the  Press  Association  was  reasonable  under  the  cir- 
cumstances : 

"  On  account  of  the  serious  illness  of  Sir  Hubert 
Wagner  the  marriage  between  Miss  Wagner  and  the  Earl 
of  Lyssons  is  unavoidably  postponed." 

Sir  Hubert  did  not  in  the  least  mind  going  into  retreat ; 
there  were  half  a  dozen  cures  and  diets  he  had  not  yet 
tried — Vibro-massage,  for  instance,  and  St.  Ivel  milk. 

The  next  announcement  was  that : 

"  In  consequence  of  the  continued  indisposition  of  Sir 
Hubert  Wagner  he  is  compelled  to  cancel  all  engage- 
ments." 

Stone  House  was  to  be  shut  up,  the  family  removing 
to  Scotland,  to  Sir  Hubert's  place  at  Gairoch,  known  for 
the  salubrity  of  the  climate. 

This  was  in  the  middle  of  the  season,  their  first  season 
at  Stone  House !  It  was  a  cruel  sacrifice  for  Loetitia  to 
make,  and  Manuella  was  not  spared  the  narrative  of  it. 

To  have  actively  ill-treated  the  girl,  chastised  or 
starved  her,  would  have  been  at  this  time  entirely  to 
Loetitia's  mind.  But  we  live  in  a  complicated  world, 
and  such  primitive  action  was  impossible  with  a  girl  of 
nearly  eighteen.  To  say  that,  before  the  removal  to 
Gairoch,  and  during  the  journey,  she  nagged  her  con- 
tinually, in  season  and  out,  is  to  put  the  case  very  mildly. 
Lady  Wagner  lost  no  opportunity  of  pointing  out  that 


130  CONCERT   PITCH 

Manuella  had  disgraced  her  family,  that  on  her  account 
they  would  be  socially  ostracised.  Manuella's  reasoning 
powers  were  almost  deadened  by  the  repeated  blows  from 
Lcetitia's  flail-like  phraseology.  That  must  be  counted 
as  an  excuse  for  her.  When  she  dashed  off  a  foolish 
letter  to  Migotti,  just  before  they  started,  she  had  no 
definite  intention.  He  had  seen  the  announcement  of 
the  postponed  wedding,  drawn  his  own  conclusion,  and 
written  her  eloquently  and  passionately.  She  replied  that 
her  people  were  awfully  angry  with  her  and  were  carry- 
ing her  off  to  Scotland.  She  added  the  address,  and  that 
she  would  like  to  hear  how  he  was  getting  on  with  the 
opera.  It  was  her  protest  against  Lcetitia's  abuse  of  him. 
Nothing  more.  Although,  perhaps,  when  she  was  hear- 
ing constantly  how  entirely  evil  she  was,  and  outside  the 
pale,  it  was  a  solace  to  read  in  his  impassioned  letter 
that  she  was  adorable  and  beautiful,  and  that  he  was 
laying,  not  only  himself,  but  his  art  at  her  feet. 

Arrived  at  Gairoch,  there  was  a  short  lull  in  hostilities. 
Sir  Hubert's  nerves  could  not  withstand  the  paragraphs, 
and  he  developed  in  earnest  the  illness  that  had  been 
prematurely  announced.  The  attention  of  the  house 
became  concentrated  upon  him,  and  Manuella  was  left 
to  herself.  Even  those  few  days  were  sufficient  to  justify 
Dr.  Shorter.  Porridge  and  cream,  plain  food  and  open 
air  brought  back  the  colour  to  the  girl's  cheeks,  strength- 
ening her  for  what  was  in  front. 

Lcetitia  heard  from  Lady  Sallust.  Nominally  she  wrote 
to  inquire  after  Sir  Hubert,  really  to  tell  of  a  letter  from 
Waldo,  in  Norway,  in  which  he  asked  to  be  kept  informed 
of  Sir  Hubert's  progress.  Lady  Sallust  had  cut  out  the 
extract  and  enclosed  it: 

"I  hope  I  am  not  considered  a  recalcitrant  lover, 
because  I  could  not  resist  the  salmon.  Have  you  by  any 
chance  seen  my  fiancee?  Keep  me  posted  in  Wagner 
news.  I  expect  to  be  back  before  the  autumn." 

Lady  Sallust  added  her  comment : 

"  I   don't  understand  this,  but  I  am  sure  you   will. 


CONCERT    PITCH  131 

What  about  a  quiet  wedding  in  Scotland?  Waldo  is 
always  incomprehensible.  I'm  not  clear  now  why  he 
went  away.  Was  there  any  quarrel?  I  will  write  him 
anything  you  tell  me.  ..." 

Albert  arrived  during  the  lull,  very  curious,  quite 
prepared  to  be  sympathetic  to  his  sister  or  his  stepmother, 
full  of  his  own  affairs.  Loetitia  gave  him  her  own 
version ;  by  this  time  she  was  quite  persuaded  it  was  the 
true  one. 

"  He  discovered  she  was  keeping  up  a  correspondence, 
secretly  meeting  a  foreign  musician.  ..." 

"  A  musician !  "  Even  Albert  was  shocked  that  she 
should  have  so  far  forgotten  herself. 

"  You  may  be  able  to  influence  her.  If  she  could  be 
brought  into  a  proper  state  of  mind  it  seems  Lord  Lyssons 
is  prepared  to  come  forward  again.  His  affairs  are  in  a 
shocking  state.  But,  of  course,  it  is  one  of  the  oldest 
earldoms.  I  have  my  hands  full  just  now ;  so  much 
correspondence,  your  father's  illness;  everything  de- 
volves upon  me.  And  in  the  height  of  the  season,  too! 
Perhaps  you  will  succeed  in  bringing  her  to  a  sense  of 
her  conduct.  When  you  have  spoken  to  her  and  made 
it  clear,  you  can  tell  her  that  I  have  heard  from  Lady 
Sallust,  that  I  am  myself  writing  to  Lord  Lyssons,  and 
am  conveying  her  regrets,  her  contrition.  She  must, 
of  course,  promise  not  to  see  or  correspond  with  this 
dreadful  person,  to  break  off  all  intercourse  with 
him.  ..." 

Albert  did  his  best  in  conveying  this  conversation  to 
his  sister;  but  he  was  not  a  persuasive  person. 

"  I  say,  you  know,  this  is  simply  tommy-rot."  He 
liked  the  expression  and  repeated  it.  '  Tommy-rot,  I 
call  it!  Who  is  the  bounder,  anyway?  You  can't 
marry  a  musician — a  chap  with  a  name  like  a  penny-ice- 
cream man." 

"  Who  said  I  was  going  to  marry  him  ?  " 

"  Well,  you'll  have  to  chuck  it  in  the  end ;  why  don't 
you  do  it  now,  and  let  me  tell  her  it's  all  settled?  She'll 


132  CONCERT   PITCH 

get  Lord  Lyssons  back,  his  affairs  are  in  no  end  of  a 
mess.  .  .  .  This  other  fellow,  now,  he  isn't  even  a 
gentleman.  It  isn't  worth  the  row.  She  is  in  the  devil's 
own  rage.  She  says  you  are  mad,  she  will  get  you  locked 
up,  she's  capable  of  it,  you  know.  Sir  William  Bellairs 
will  say  anything  he  is  told.  ..." 

"  So  will  you,  it  seems.  I  don't  care  what  she  says,  or 
does.  I'm  not  a  child  any  more.  I  never  heard  people 
talk  like  you  all  do  about  musicians.  Harston  Migotti 
is  a  genius.  ..." 

"  Genius  be  damned !  I  suppose  you  mean  he's  got 
long  hair ! " 

She  did  not  want  to  quarrel  with  Albert,  nor  he  with 
her,  and  she  did  not  care  in  the  least  about  Harston 
Migotti,  although  she  defended  him.  She  received  almost 
daily  letters  from  him ;  he  had  an  idea  now  that  she  was 
being  persecuted  for  his  sake ;  he  wrote  wonderful  love- 
letters.  It  was  really  only  in  defiance  of  Lcetitia  that  she 
encouraged  and  answered  them. 

"  You  are  not  going  to  make  an  absolute  ass  of  your- 
self? You  are  not  going  to  throw  this  bombshell,  this 
organ-grinder,  at  us  ?  " 

"  I'm  going  to  do  whatever  I  choose." 

With  reluctant  admiration  he  said  she'd  got  any 
amount  of  pluck : 

"  You  don't  mean  a  word  of  it,  you  know.  But  you 
always  did  like  fighting  her." 

"  And  always  shall." 

He  was  in  no  hurry  to  go  to  Lcetitia  with  the  story  of 
Manuella's  defiance.  He  lounged  about  the  grounds  with 
his  sister  and  went  on  talking;  although  he  had  nothing 
more  illuminating  to  say  than  that  it  was  "  rot,"  or  "  bally 
rot,"  or  "  tommy-rot " ;  that  she  would  have  to  "  climb 
down,"  so  "why  not  do  it  at  once?"  and  other  similar 
futilities.  All  through  her  childhood  she  had  known 
Albert  admired  her  when  she  fought  Lcetitia,  although 
he  never  followed  her  example.  Lcetitia  slapped  her 
often  in  those  days,  hard  vindictive  slaps,  and  one  day 
she  had  bitten  Loetitia's  hand.  The  solitary  confine- 


CONCERT    PITCH  133 

ment  that  followed  was  easy  to  bear,  because  Loetitia's 
hand  bled  when  she  bit  it,  and  Albert  had  been  awed  at 
her  daring. 

"  You've  always  had  pluck ;  I  wish  I  had." 

Now  the  admiration  came  reluctantly,  and  was  followed 
by  a  long  tale  of  his  own  troubles  and  difficulties.  They 
were  utterly  sordid,  but  he  seemed  to  like  talking  about 
them.  He  said  he  had  once  been  in  love  himself,  when  he 
was  sixteen,  with  a  "  boys'  maid,"  as  they  were  called — 
a  servant  in  his  house  at  Eton.  In  exasperation  she  inter- 
rupted to  say  she  had  never  been  in  love,  she  wasn't 
in  love,  didn't  know  what  he  meant.  Then  she  grew 
scarlet,  and  so  made  him  exclaim  : 

"  What's  the  good  of  denying  it  ?  Girls  can't  help 
falling  in  love ;  it's  a  way  they  have.  Why  should  you  be 
different  ?  " 

He  maundered  about  chorus-girls,  barmaids,  girls  in 
tobacconists'  shops.  She  shut  her  ears  against  the  sordid 
talk  he  poured  into  them.  It  was  only  when  he  said 
again  that  Lcetitia  was  going  to  write  to  Lord  Lyssons 
that  she  became  excited. 

"  She  is  not  to  write  to  him.  I  won't  have  it ;  I  forbid 
it.  I  swear  I'll  run  away  with  Harston  Migotti  if  she 
does.  He  shan't  think  I've  sent  for  him." 

"  Tell  her  so  yourself,  then.  /  shan't;  I've  got  to  keep 
on  good  terms  with  her — got  to,  I  tell  you !  " 

She  did  not  stop  to  think,  for  it  was  not  her  way.  They 
would  make  him  believe  she  wanted  him,  whether  he 
cared  for  her  or  not ;  that  she  was  like  the  girls  of  whom 
Albert  spoke,  who  had  no  dignity. 

She  made  a  flying  run  to  her  stepmother's  room,  and 
broke  in  upon  her  without  ceremony. 

"  Albert  says  you  are  going  to  write  to  Lord  Lyssons." 
Her  face  was  flushed,  her  eyes  full  of  tears  and  battle. 

"  To  what  am  I  indebted  for  the  honour  of  this  visit?  " 
Lady  Wagner  rose  when  her  stepdaughter  came  into  the 
room.  Her  tones  were  icy.  She  thought  she  was  digni- 
fied, and  justified  in  resenting  the  intrusion  on  her 
solitude  by  this  disgraced  and  disgraceful  girl.  Manuella 


134  CONCERT    PITCH 

looked  beautiful  in  this  mood,  but  naturally  Lady  Wanner 
set  no  value  on  her  beauty.  She  only  saw  the  old  ob- 
stinacy and  evil  temper. 

"  Are  you  going  to  write  to  him?  " 

"  Would  you  kindly  allow  me  at  least  the  privilege  of 
solitude  ?  Your  behaviour  becomes  worse  and  worse.  As 
I  was  telling  your  brother,  it  may  become  necessary  to 
consult  Sir  William  Bellairs.  .  .  .  Will  you  go?" 

"  Not  until  you've  answered  me." 

"  I  am  certainly  thanking  Lord  Lyssons  for  his  extra- 
ordinary delicacy,  his  consideration." 

"  Asking  him  to  come  back  ?  " 

"  I  will  not  be  cross-questioned.  I  don't  know  what 
things  are  coming  to." 

"  Don't  you  ?  Well,  you  can.  They're  coming  to 
this:  if  you  write  to  Lord  Lyssons  I'll  run  away  with 
Harston  Migotti.  I  swear  I  will.  I  won't  be  thrust  on 
Lord  Lyssons.  He  doesn't  care  about  me.  ..."  She 
was  beside  herself.  Scarlet  in  the  face. 

"  Who  could  ?  "  Lcetitia  answered  coldly.  "  Not  that 
that  has  anything  to  do  with  it;  he  probably  found  you 
exceedingly  forward.  Care  about  you !  One  would  think 
you  were  a  housemaid !  " 

Of  course,  the  words  had  escaped  Manuella  unwit- 
tingly; she  would  have  done  anything  to  recall  them. 
Perhaps  her  stepmother  would  put  that  in  her  letter,  that 
she  complained  he  did  not  care  for  her ! 

"  I  swear  I'll  run  away  with  Harston  Migotti  if  you 
write." 

"  I  am  not  to  be  moved  by  threats.  You  are  interrupt- 
ing my  morning's  work.  I  wish  you  to  understand  that 
until  you  recollect  yourself,  and  your  duty  to  me  and 
your  father,  until  you  leave  off  talking  and  thinking  of 
this  disgusting  person,  I  wish  for  no  intercourse  with 
you ;  no  intercourse  to  which  I  am  not  compelled.  You 
will  probably  find  he,  too.  will  not  wish  to  be  burdened 
with  you  if  your  father  cuts  you  off  with  a  shilling,  as  he 
will  do,  as  he  will  certainly  do,  if  you  don't  alter  your 
ways.  Go  away !  " 


CONCERT    PITCH  135 

Manuella  did  not  go.  She  stormed  and  raged,  and 
even  begged  her  stepmother  not  to  write  to  Lord  Lyssons. 
Her  life  seemed  to  hang  on  it. 

Loetitia  remained  calm.  She  kept  her  pen  in  her 
hand,  her  eyes  on  the  paper  before  her,  dipping  it  in  the 
ink  now  and  then,  holding  it  suspended.  "  How  much 
longer,"  she  seemed  to  say,  "  how  much  longer  are  you 
going  to  stand  there,  saying  those  unlady-like  things, 
keeping  me  from  my  correspondence?  I  have  no  more 
to  say  to  you." 

Manuella  flung  herself  out  of  the  room  in  the  end,  half 
maddened  by  this  exasperating  and  contemptuous  calm, 
banging  the  door  behind  her,  confirming  Lcetitia's  worst 
opinion  of  her  manners. 

Albert  met  her  outside. 

"  Didn't  get  any  good  out  of  her,  I  suppose  ?  " 

She  could  not  even  speak  to  him. 

In  the  evening,  ostentatiously  placed  upon  the  hall- 
table,  ready  for  the  post,  in  such  a  position  that  it  was 
impossible  to  miss  it,  was  a  letter  in  Lcetitia's  precise  and 
pointed  hand-writing,  addressed  to  the  "  Right  Honoura- 
ble the  Earl  of  Lyssons." 

At  dinner  Lcetitia  said  she  hoped  Manuella  had  re- 
covered herself. 

****** 

At  five  o'clock  the  next  morning,  after  a  night  of 
unreasoning  rage,  Manuella  went  from  Gairoch,  leaving 
girlhood  behind  her,  and  so  much  more,  rushing  into  the 
unknown.  It  was  the  mood  in  which  children  commit 
suicide ;  one  reads  of  such  cases.  She  could  not  breathe 
under  the  same  roof  as  her  stepmother. 

Claire  packed  her  box,  Barker  took  it  to  the  station. 
Never  would  she  forget  the  journey,  nor  recall  it  without 
the  same  shuddering  sense  of  unreality  and  terror.  She 
had  told  them  that  if  Lord  Lyssons  was  written  to  she 
would  run  away  with  Harston  Migotti,  and  she  was  going 
to  keep  her  word. 

She  drove  to  the  station  at  five  o'clock  in  the  morning. 
The  two  servants  helped  her,  the  others  may  have  known 


136  CONCERT    PITCH 

how  to  look  the  other  way.  Loetitia  was  not  popular  in 
the  servants'  hall,  and  her  treatment  of  the  girl  was 
commented  upon  freely. 

In  the  crawling  local  trains,  changing  from  one  to 
another,  dodging  the  pursuit  that  never  came,  she  had 
alternations  of  feeling,  hot  fits,  cold  apprehensions. 
Her  courage  and  her  cowardice  raced  together  in  her 
heart-beats.  At  every  change  she  looked  for  a  familiar 
face,  for  the  one  who  might  have  been  sent  to  bring  her 
back.  It  was  two  days  after  she  left  Gairoch  before  she 
reached  London. 

At  home,  at  Gairoch,  she  was  not  missed  until  the 
morning  was  far  advanced.  Everyone  in  the  house  knew, 
save  Lady  Wagner  and  Sir  Hubert.  Her  own  maid  told 
Loetitia  in  the  end — her  own  maid,  who  was  not  without 
gratification  at  being  able  to  convey  bad  news,  who  did 
her  duty  with  gusto. 

"  Miss  Wagner  is  not  in  her  room,  milady ;  her  bed 
has  not  been  slept  in.  They  are  saying  in  the  house  as  she 
has  run  away.  I  thought  your  ladyship  ought  to  know." 

Loetitia,  without  her  transformation,  showing  more 
skull  than  even  Dr.  Shorter  had  seen,  changed  colour,  and 
the  pink  in  her  nose  deepened.  For  a  wild  moment  she 
thought  the  girl  had  committed  suicide.  If  that  were 
so,  an  explanation  of  everything  would  be  easy  to  find : 
"  Suicide  whilst  of  unsound  mind."  But  the  voice  of  her 
maid  went  on : 

"  She  must  have  gone  by  the  early  morning  train  to 
Pitlochrie.  Nobody  in  the  house  knew  nothing  about  it, 
but  her  box  has  gone.  Mary  says.  ..." 

But  Lady  Wagner  did  not  wish  to  hear  what  the  house- 
maid had  said.  When  she  collected  her  thoughts  she 
became  haughty  and  imperious,  commanding  that  she  was 
to  be  dressed  quickly. 

"  No  one  is  to  go  to  Sir  Hubert  with  this  news.  Tell 
the  household  so.  I  shall  inform  him  myself.  ..." 

To  disbelieve  the  story,  or  even  question  it,  was  im- 
possible. It  was  just  what  the  girl  would  have  done. 


CONCERT    PITCH  137 

She  had  "  no  shame,  no  feeling."  So  said  Lcetitia  as  she 
hurried  through  her  toilette,  making  up  her  mind  mean- 
while— her  inexorable  mind.  "  Miss  Mincey-Pincey,"  the 
Dutch  children  had  called  her  in  her  governess  days. 
The  name  suited  her  this  morning  before  the  transforma- 
tion was  adjusted.  Her  lips  were  one  narrow  and  blood- 
less line,  she  was  as  prim  and  stiff  as  if  she  had  never 
captured  the  mining  magnate,  nor  achieved  the  dignity 
of  a  married  woman.  All  virginity  was  outraged. 
Manuella  had  run  away  with  her  lover !  She  was  an 
"  abandoned  girl  whose  name  must  not  be  mentioned  in 
the  house."  She  came  to  this  conclusion  quickly,  without 
consulting  Sir  Hubert  or  waiting  to  hear  her  bad  opinion 
confirmed ;  and  she  voiced  it  before  she  left  the  bedroom. 

"  We  shall  wash  our  hands  of  her  entirely.  I  have 
done  all  I  could  to  save  her.  ..."  She  was  not  in  the 
habit  of  talking  to  her  maid,  but  the  occasion  was  excep- 
tional. "  You  will  say  that  I  do  not  wish  the  matter 
discussed." 

She  might  have  had  some  difficulty  with  Sir  Hubert. 
He  did,  indeed,  make  a  protest,  but  Loetitia  was  so  anx- 
ious he  should  not  agitate  himself,  so  concerned  as  to  the 
effect  excitement  might  have  upon  him,  that  he  imagined 
she  knew  something  about  his  health  which  he  did  not 
know  himself,  that  Sir  William  had  told  her,  warned  her. 
He  insisted  upon  hearing  what  Sir  William  had  said. 

"  Did  he  tell  you  there  was  any  tendency  to  apoplexy? 
I  have  had  anything  but  a  good  night.  These  spots 
before  my  eyes  are  only  a  sign  of  biliousness.  It  is  absurd 
to  talk  of  washing  our  hands  of  her,  of  letting  her  go. 
She  must  be  found ;  we  must  see  what  is  to  be  done 
for  them.  Of  course,  I  can't  go  up  to  London  myself 
in  this  state.  Albert  must  go.  Did  Sir  William  say 
anything  about  me  that  you  are  keeping  back?  Do 
these  spots  mean  anything?  My  hands  are  a  little  shaky. 
I  am  not  going  to  have  a  stroke,  am  I  ?  This  news  has 
shaken  me.  You  don't  recollect  her  mother?  Of  course 
you  don't  recollect  her  mother;  what  am  I  saying?  I 
think  you  had  better  telegraph  for  Sir  William." 


138  CONCERT    PITCH 

"  Sir  William  said  you  must  be  kept  very  quiet ;  there 
is  a  tendency  for  the  blood  to  rush  to  the  head." 

Lcetitia  used  every  weapon  in  her  arsenal,  tried  de- 
liberately to  frighten  him,  took  everything  out  of  his 
hands.  By  the  end  of  the  day  he  was  nearly  as  ill  as 
he  thought  himself.  Sir  William  charged  two  hundred 
guineas  for  the  journey  to  Scotland,  but  what  was  money 
when  Sir  Hubert  Wagner's  eyes  did  not  focus,  when  he 
felt  a  loss  of  power  in  one  hand,  and  began  to  speak 
incoherently?  Lady  Wagner  had  some  excuse  for  her 
decision  that  Manuella  was  not  to  be  pursued.  She  had 
chosen  to  leave  them ;  her  conduct  had  "  flung  her  father 
on  a  bed  of  sickness  " ;  they  would  "  erase  her  name  from 
the  archives  of  the  family " ;  Albert  should  be  their 
"  only  child." 

Lcetitia  never  invented  a  phrase  nor  forgot  one,  and 
this  was  a  juncture  to  which  they  all  came  appropriately. 

It  was  comparatively  easy  to  act  as  she  desired.  Fear 
or  excitement,  treatment,  or  his  sixty-fifth  year,  were 
responsible  for  a  slight  stroke.  Even  Sir  William  Bellairs 
was  able  to  diagnose  it.  Many  days  afterwards,  before 
that  little  rupture  in  the  brain  was  fully  healed,  Lcetitia 
showed  him  an  announcement  of  the  marriage  in  a  reg- 
istry office  of  "  Manuella  Wagner  and  Harston  Migotti." 

"  And  she  has  never  even  written,  she  has  made  no 
inquiry,  although  the  papers  have  been  full  of  your  illness. 
I  have  heard  from  everybody;  we  have  been  inundated 
with  telegrams,  and  most  kind  inquiries.  But  your 
daughter  has  ignored  you  entirely.  ..." 

It  may  have  been  true,  Manuella  may  not  have  written. 
Lcetitia  can  have  the  benefit  of  the  doubt.  Sir  Hubert, 
in  his  weakness,  fell  to  whimpering,  and  said  Lcetitia  was 
right ;  she  was  an  ungrateful  daughter. 

From  this  time  onwards,  under  fostering,  what  had 
been  hypochondria  became  something  very  like  mono- 
mania. Sir  Hubert  was  really  in  no  condition  to  resist 
his  wife,  nor  defend  his  daughter;  he  could  think  of 
nothing  but  his  health. 


CHAPTER  XII 

MANUELLA  arrived  at  Euston  two  days  after  she 
had  left  Gairoch,  her  passion  and  herself  ex- 
hausted, nothing  but  her  obstinacy  strong.  She  had  tele- 
graphed to  Harston  Migotti  to  meet  her.  He  had  asked 
her  to  come  to  him,  and  rather  than  Lord  Lyssons  should 
know  she  cared  for  him,  she  was  here. 

She  looked  for  him,  putting  her  head  out  of  the 
windows,  straining  her  eyes,  even  before  the  train  came 
to  a  standstill  in  the  station.  Then  she  got  out  and 
looked  up  and  down  the  platform.  He  was  not  there. 

"  Any  luggage,  miss  ? "  She  was  irresolute.  The 
porter  found  her  box,  shouldered  it,  and  waited  for 
direction. 

"  I'd  better  have  a  cab."  The  telegram  might  have 
miscarried ;  she  had  given  it  to  a  little  paper  boy  only  a 
few  hours  ago. 

"  Where  to  ?  Where  shall  I  tell  him  to  drive  ? 
Thank  you,  miss."  She  tipped  him,  then  hesitated  an 
imperceptible  moment. 

"  Tell  him  to  drive  to  the  nearest  hotel." 
'  Temperance  '  ?  " 

There  were  several  temperance  hotels  in  the  neighbour- 
hood, and  they  seemed  to  the  man,  grey-haired,  and  with 
a  family  of  his  own,  more  suitable  to  her  youth  than  the 
"  Euston."  She  was  travel-stained  and  not  well  dressed 
and  he  gave  her  the  best  advice  he  knew. 

139 


140  CONCERT    PITCH 

"  Yes.     No.     Anywhere !  "  she  answered. 

"  I  should  try  '  Leeson's/ "  he  said ;  "  it's  a  very 
respectable  house,  miss,"  he  said  confidentially. 

"  Lookin'  for  a  situation,"  was  his  summary  of  the 
position,  "  new  to  London." 

When  the  cab  pulled  up  at  the  sordid  house  and  she  got 
out,  her  heart  sank,  her  tired  eyes  filled  with  tears.  She 
was  ashamed  of  herself  when  she  felt  those  tears  in  her 
eyes,  and  recognized  the  cause.  "  Leeson's  "  was  so  un- 
like Stone  House,  or  Gairoch.  But  her  whole  life  was 
going  to  be  unlike  the  life  she  had  led  lately;  she  had 
known  that  all  along.  Nevertheless,  the  outside  impres- 
sion of  this  third-class  temperance  hotel,  or  boarding- 
house,  made  her  heart  sink.  The  cabman  lumbered 
rheumatically  off  his  seat  to  help  with  her  box.  She 
rang,  and  a  German  waiter,  young,  not  over  clean,  an- 
swered the  bell. 

"  Can  I  have  a  room  ?    Have  you  got  rooms  ?  " 

"  I  will  call  Mr.  Leeson." 

She  did  not  hear  the  name,  she  was  nervous,  anxious 
that  no  one  should  see  it,  pretending  self-possession. 
She  overpaid  the  cabman,  following  her  box  and  the 
German  waiter  into  the  hall  that  smelt  of  mutton  or 
candle-grease,  or  many  lodgers.  She  sat  on  a  wooden 
chair  in  the  hall  whilst  the  proprietor  was  being  fetched. 
The  desire  to  cry  had  left  her;  she  was  entirely  occupied 
in  keeping  up  the  appearance  of  self-possession,  as  if  all 
that  was  happening  was  nothing  new  to  her.  She  need 
not  have  troubled.  Mr.  Leeson  was  represented  by  his 
wife,  a  civil  woman,  with  rheumy  eyes,  who  was  entirely 
commonplace,  except  for  her  tenses.  These  were 
grotesque,  and  misrepresented  her  mind. 

"  Would  you  be  wanting  a  sitting-room  as  well  as  a 
bedroom  ?  And  what  were  you  thinking  of  paying  ?  " 

Manuella  had  not  the  slightest  idea,  but  answered 
vaguely : 

"  Are  they  good  rooms  ?  " 

"  Perhaps  you  would  like  to  see  them  ?  " 

"  Yes,   please."     The   rheumy-eyed  woman  turned   a 


CONCERT   PITCH  141 

bent  back,  covered  by  a  brown  blouse  irregularly  hooked 
up,  showing  gaps,  and  led  the  way  upstairs. 

She  opened  the  door  of  a  front  room,  where  there  were 
walnut-wood  chairs  and  sideboard,  saddlebag  sofa,  and 
the  same  smell  that  dominated  the  hall. 

"  The  bedroom  is  behind ;  there'll  be  a  double  bed  in  it. 
How  long  would  you  be  wanting  it  for?  "  Mrs.  Leeson 
was  only  mildly  interrogative.  Manuella  covered  her 
inability  to  reply  by  asking  what  was  the  price. 

"  They  would  be  two  guineas  and  a  half  a  week.  We 
could  not  do  it  for  less  than  that,  and  a  shilling  a  day  for 
the  kitchen  fire.  Washing  will  be  extra.  How  long  did 
you  say  it  would  be  for  ?  " 

Manuella  agreed  to  the  terms;  she  had  not  the  least 
idea  whether  they  were  dear  or  cheap. 

"  I'll  take  them,"  she  said  indecisively.  The  woman 
looked  at  her  for  the  first  time  with  something  approach- 
ing personal  interest.  This  strange  young  person  had 
not  tried  to  make  the  bargain  which  had  been  allowed 
for  in  the  quotation  and  was  customary.  She  had  not 
looked  into  the  bedroom  nor  asked  any  questions. 

"  Then  you'd  like  your  box  brought  up.  Fritz  will 
uncord  it  for  you."  In  this  locality  boxes  were  corded, 
not  strapped.  "  The  dining-room  is  downstairs ;  dinner 
is  at  one.  Can  I  get  you  anything  before  I  go?" 

"  Can't  I  have  my  dinner  sent  upstairs  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes.  But  it's  extra — sixpence  extra  for  meals 
served  in  the  rooms.  I'll  tell  Fritz  to  bring  you  up  the 
tariff;  it's  all  wrote  down." 

Slowly  Mrs.  Leeson  woke  up  to  the  fact  of  there  being 
something  unusual  about  her  new  lodger;  she  began  to 
be  suspicious,  not  that  it  was  "  any  affair  of  hers." 
Nothing  was  very  definitely  any  affair  of  hers  except 
making  a  living  profit  in  a  house  where  there  was  no  drink 
served,  an  almost  hopeless  task. 

"  We  shut  up  the  house  at  eleven  o'clock.  If  you  are 
out  after  that  me  or  my  husband  sits  up,  but  ..." 

"  Oh,  I  shan't  be  out,"  she  answered  hastily. 

Mrs.  Leeson  withdrew. 


142  CONCERT    PITCH 

"  I  don't  know  what  to  make  of  her,"  she  said  to  her 
husband  later ;  "  she  seems  respectable.  It's  a  big  box 
she  has  with  her ;  Fritz  could  hardly  get  it  up  the  stairs." 

"  Did  you  ask  her  to  pay  in  advance  ?  " 

"  She  is  not  that  sort.  Looks  more  like  a  runaway 
to  me,  as  if  she's  run  away  from  school.  She  says  she 
wants  us  to  send  off  a  letter  as  soon  as  she  has  written 
it.  That'll  be  to  a  young  man,  I'm  thinking.  It's  not 
our  affair." 

"  Not  so  long  as  she  pays  her  way,"  Mr.  Leeson 
agreed,  taking  his  long  churchwarden  out  of  his  mouth 
and  preparing  to  argue.  Argument  was  his  principal 
contribution  to  the  work  of  the  house. 

"  Her  dinner  is  to  be  sent  up  to  her  room." 

"  Then  I'll  step  up  with  it  myself.  There's  no  know- 
ing." The  last  sentence  was  cryptogrammatic,  and  inten- 
tionally controversial.  But  Mrs.  Leeson  kept  her  mouth 
aggravatingly  shut,  looked  at  the  mutton  roasting  in  the 
oven,  and  shut  the  iron  door  with  a  bang. 

Mr.  Leeson's  curiosity  made  him  as  good  as  his  word. 
By  the  time  he  brought  up  the  dinner  Manuella  had 
removed  her  hat  and  her  travel-stained  clothes,  washed 
in  cold  water  with  yellow  soap,  taken  down  her  hair, 
brushed  and  put  it  up  again,  and  changed  into  a  white 
embroidered  dress  that  was  one  of  the  triumphs  of 
Lucille's  atelier,  a  trousseau  dress. 

"  She  looks  like  a  young  lady,  that's  what  she  looks 
like,  and  a  rare  and  'ansome  one,"  was  Mr.  Leeson's  re- 
port, when  he  had  finished  laying  the  cloth,  adjusting  the 
dingy  cutlery,  putting  two  straw  mats  on  the  table  to  pre- 
vent the  hot  dishes  leaving  a  mark,  and  gone  downstairs 
to  fetch  the  "  cut  from  the  joint  and  the  two  veges !  " 

He  was  a  long  time  returning,  and  while  she  was  wait- 
ing Manuella  wrote  a  letter.  She  was  sure  now  the  tele- 
gram had  miscarried.  At  first  she  thought  she  would 
send  a  cab  with  the  note,  then  that  it  would  be  better 
posted.  The  nearer  the  time  came  when  she  would  see 
him  the  more  she  dreaded  the  meeting.  It  was  absurd, 
because  why  had  she  come  here  ?  Why  had  she  run  away, 


CONCERT    PITCH  143 

but  to  join  him  ?  It  was  absurd,  but  it  was  true.  She  was 
filled  with  fears,  misgivings,  a  suddenly  reared  and 
hydra-headed  modesty.  She  had  to  send  for  him,  but  she 
did  not  want  him  to  come.  Inside  she  was  cold,  trem- 
bling, frightened  at  what  she  was  about  to  do.  Out- 
wardly she  kept  her  self-control. 

"  Have  this  letter  posted  at  once,  please ;  it  is  very 
important,"  she  said,  when  Mr.  Leeson  reappeared, 
perspiring,  but  prepared  to  be  friendly. 

"  I'm  passing  that  way  this  afternoon,  miss,  I'll  drop  it 
for  you.  You'll  be  in  an  'urry  for  the  answer." 

Having  said  it  was  important,  she  would  not  tell  him 
there  was  no  hurry.  She  bolted  her  dinner,  for  there 
was  no  saying  how  soon  Harston  Migotti  would  be  here. 
She  had  only  written  that  she  was  here  in  London.  He 
was  a  stranger  to  her,  little  more  than  a  stranger.  There 
was  no  beginning  and  no  end  to  her  letter;  she  did  not 
know  what  to  call  him,  or  how  to  sign  herself.  She  knew 
nothing  intimately  about  him. 

He  was  not  surprised  to  get  her  letter,  not  nearly  as 
surprised  as  she  was  to  have  written  it.  He  came  as 
quickly  as  possible  from  his  rooms  in  Bedford  Square. 

Manuella  had  a  first  overwhelming  moment  of  terror 
when  he  came  in.  What  had  she  done?  Had  he  meant 
it  when  he  implored  her  to  come?  Was  it  true  he  was 
really  in  love  with  her?  But  the  thought  was  only 
momentary.  His  personality  was  so  overwhelming  that 
there  was  not  room  for  hers. 

"  But  here  you  are !  How  wonderful  it  is !  I  have 
not  been  able  to  work,  to  play,  or  to  compose !  "  She 
did  not  respond  to  his  embraces,  shrinking  from  them 
rather;  she  could  not  understand  that  all  this  was 
happening  to  her.  He  soothed  what  he  imagined  to  be 
her  fears. 

"  We  will  be  married  as  quickly  as  possible.  I  have  a 
friend,  quite  a  great  friend,  and  he  will  tell  us  how  it  is 
to  be  done.  Oh !  how  I  long  that  you  are  my  wife !  I 
scarcely  believed  you  would  come.  And  yet,  ever  since 
I  had  your  letter,  your  first  dear  letter,  that  I  kissed  and 


144  CONCERT    PITCH 

kissed  again,  I  have  felt  more  than  happy.  ...  I  have 
known  that  you  loved  me.  ..." 

She  tried  to  believe  it  was  true,  and  that  that  was 
why  she  had  come ;  he  was  really  a  genius,  and  of  course 
he  loved  her,  he  was  telling  her  so  all  the  time.  She 
could  see  nothing  beyond  the  immediate  present,  des- 
perately refusing  to  look. 

An  amazing  few  days  followed.  Harston  was  with  her 
all  the  time,  embracing  her,  playing  to  her  on  the  dread- 
ful cottage  piano,  out  of  date  and  out  of  tune,  talking 
to  her  about  himself,  about  his  opera,  about  Madame 
Liebius,  whom  he  actually  brought  to  see  her,  and  about 
Gerald  Streatfield,  who  was  his  best  friend,  his  good  Eng- 
lish friend,  who  would  arrange  that  they  should  marry 
as  soon  as  the  law — the  strange  English  law — allowed. 

Madame  Liebius,  who  was  the  kindest-hearted  soul  in 
the  world,  was  kinder  than  possible  to  Manuella. 

"  And  you  have  come  all  the  way  from  Scotland  to 
marry  our  Migotti,  our  wonder  boy.  I  never  thought 
that  he  would  have  fallen  in  love  like  this.  Oh !  but 
you  are  lovely,  my  child.  And  he  tells  me  that  you  can 
sing,  and  that  your  father  is  that  Sir  Hubert  Wagner,  at 
whose  great  house  I  sang  and  he  played  the  Trio!  Of 
course  I  remember  now — you  came  in  the  artists'  room. 
You  have  run  away  to  marry  Migotti.  Wunderschon! 
Ah!  but  he  will  make  a  great  name.  Have  you  heard 
his  symphony?  What  am  I  to  do  for  you  both?  Will 
you  leave  this  so  strange  house  ?  "  She  looked  around 
her  with  obvious  distaste.  "Will  you  come  back  to 
my  hotel  with  me?  Of  course  I  shall  go  with  you  to 
the  church,  or  to  the  Office,  if  you  are  not  married  in  a 
church.  I  have  known  Harston  since  he  was  a  baby; 
since  he  played  when  he  could  not  reach  the  piano,  but 
sat  upon  my  lap  to  touch  the  keys.  At  Kreuznach  they 
called  him  the  infant  Mozart.  You  will  be  proud  to  have 
such  a  husband,  will  you  not?  But  you  are  brave,  very 
brave  to  run  away  from  your  home.  I  love  romance.  I 
myself  am  romantic.  ..." 

All    the    days    were    incredible,    impossible.     Always 


CONCERT   PITCH  145 

Manuella  thought  that  she  would  wake  up  and  find  none 
of  it  was  true,  that  she  was  back  in  Stone  House,  or  at 
Gairoch ;  that  Lord  Lyssons  would  come  in,  tease  her, 
tell  her  he  had  come  to  fetch  her.  She  dreamed  of  him 
every  night,  although  Harston  Migotti  was  with  her  every 
day,  and  she  was  going  to  marry  him  in  less  than  a  week ! 

The  Leesons  knew  everything  now  and  that  it  was  a 
runaway  marriage.  Romance  and  sentiment  are  the  two 
great  dominating  factors  of  English  life,  without  which 
the  lower  orders  would  all  be  Socialists,  and  unrest  grow 
quickly  to  revolution.  Now  the  overworked  chamber- 
maid, the  workhouse  boy  who  did  the  duties  of  hall- 
porter,  the  proprietor  who  had  never  been  solvent  since 
he  came  into  business,  and  his  wife  who  agreed  it  was 
"  all  the  fault  of  them  moneyed  men  who  made  the 
laws,"  knew  that  what  they  had  dreamed  of  all  their 
lives  was  in  their  midst.  The  two  young  people  had 
good  service,  no  one  forgot  to  knock  at  the  door  before 
entering,  willing  feet  ran  to  their  call ;  they  created  and 
diffused  their  own  light  and  heat,  and  the  whole  dingy 
house  was  warmed  and  illuminated. 

It  was  managed  very  quickly.  Before  she  realized 
the  moment  had  come  Harston  called  for  her,  and 
there,  waiting  in  the  Registry  Office,  were  Madame 
Liebius  and  Gerald  Streatfield,  and  a  man  behind  a  big 
desk,  who  looked  like  a  superannuated  clerk.  The  short 
ceremony  seemed  to  be  all  over  before  it  began.  She  was 
Harston  Migotti's  wife ;  she  was  actually  married,  a  thick 
gold  wedding-ring  was  on  her  finger ! 

The  day  before  Gerald  Streatfield  had  talked  enthusias- 
tically of  Harston. 

"  I  never  thought  of  such  a  thing  as  marriage  for  him. 
Such  men  as  he  generally  live  alone ;  they  must  live 
alone,  you  know.  Half  the  time  they  are  not  there  at 
all,  not  where  we  are,  I  mean.  But  you  understand,  of 
course  you  understand  him.  I  was  all  against  his  mar- 
riage at  first ;  but  when  I  saw  you,  I  said :  '  She  knows, 
she  understands  him.'  I  saw  you  were  not  in  love  with 
him,  not  in  the  ordinary  way,  like  a  sentimental  schoolgirl. 


i46  CONCERT    PITCH 

But  your  eyes  watch  him,  your  beautiful  sombre  eyes; 
it  is  not  your  own  happiness  you  are  thinking  of.  I  can 
see  that.  He  wants  you,  needs  you  ...  in  some  things 
he  is  the  merest  boy,  he  has  the  heart  of  a  child  and 
the  mind  of  a  superman.  He  tells  me  you  have  a  wonder- 
ful voice.  I  hope  you  do  not  intend  to  sing  in  public.  Of 
course,  if  he  wishes  it,  if  it  is  his  music,  but  really  to 
marry  Harston  Migotti  is  a  profession,  a  vocation  in 
itself.  One  has  to  watch  constantly,  and  understand,  and 
fall  in  with  all  his  moods.  ..." 

After  the  colourless  strange  words  that  made  them  man 
and  wife,  there  was  the  lunch  that  Madame  Liebius  gave 
in  the  restaurant  of  the  "  Ritz,"  where  everybody  stared 
at  Madame  Liebius  or  at  Harston,  where  Manuella's  plate 
was  heaped  and  heaped  again  with  things  she  did  not  eat ; 
when  she  drank  champagne  and  saw  faces  that  she  knew, 
surprised  incredulous  faces  from  that  Stone  House  world, 
recognizing  and  not  recognizing  her,  melting  away  and 
leaving  only  Harston  Migotti,  to  whom  she  was  married, 
who  was  entirely  strange  to  her. 

She  drove  in  Madame  Liebius's  brougham  to  Padding- 
ton.  Madame  Liebius  kissed  her  many  times,  perhaps 
too  warmly.  Madame  Liebius  had  the  ample  proportions 
of  a  contralto,  and  had  lunched  generously. 

"  Oh !  but  you  will  take  care  of  him,  you  will  not  let 
him  ever  be  sorry.  You  are  a  dear,  dear  girl,  and  I 
love  you  very  much.  It  is  an  experiment,  for  he  will 
never  be  like  other  men.  But  everything  is  well — it  is 
very  well,  of  course.  You  will  care  for  him,  he  takes 
no  care  of  himself,  of  the  times  for  his  meals.  ..." 
She  kissed  and  praised  her  because  she  would  look  after 
Harston  Migotti's  meals  and  clothes,  and  lighten  the 
long  hours  that  he  worked. 

At  Paddington  Gerald  and  Harston  were  waiting  for 
them.  They  had  gone  on  earlier  in  a  motor-cab,  reserved 
a  carriage,  and  registered  the  luggage.  Harston  was 
beaming ;  he  held  his  hat  in  his  hand,  his  thick  crisp  hair, 
yellow  and  longer  than  is  customary  with  most  English- 
men, was  uncovered  during  the  whole  time  he  stood  on 


CONCERT    PITCH  147 

the  platform.  Many  people  turned  to  look  at  him.  It 
was  a  noble  head,  an  interesting  face.  His  friends 
saw  him  with  a  halo,  but  even  without  it  the  massive 
features  and  fine  brow  made  him  sufficiently  remarkable. 
They  talked  of  him,  as  if  she  were  of  no  moment,  a 
subsidiary,  of  little  personal  account,  something  he 
suddenly  needed,  and  that  they  were  glad  he  would 
have.  She  wondered  if  he,  too,  was  thinking  that.  He 
smiled  radiantly  when  he  saw  her. 

"  Isn't  she  lovely  ? "  he  asked  Gerald  and  Madame 
Liebius.  He  would  have  asked  it  of  the  bystanders  if 
they  would  have  listened  to  him.  Then  he  kissed  her 
cheek,  both  cheeks,  before  everybody !  He  kissed  Gerald, 
too,  in  the  same  way  before  he  got  into  the  reserved 
carriage;  this  rather  shocked  her  although  she  was  so 
numbed  and  strange.  That  Madame  Liebius  should  kiss 
him  was  more  natural. 

"  Oh !  you  boy,  you  dear,  dear  boy.  ..."  Madame 
Liebius  was  almost  crying.  As  for  Gerald,  he  may  have 
coloured  when  Migotti  kissed  him,  but  all  he  said  was : 

"  This  will  make  history,  you  know." 

"  You  will  come  and  see  us  on  Sunday,  you  will  both 
of  you  come  down  ?  "  Harston  called  to  them  out  of  the 
window  as  the  train  moved  off.  Madame  Liebius  was 
wiping  away  her  tears,  Gerald  waving  his  hat  to  them. 
It  was  understood  they  would  come.  The  bridal  pair 
were  only  going  to  Wargrave,  Wargrave-on-Thames. 
Gerald  had  arranged  their  honeymoon. 

The  guard  blew  his  whistle,  waved  his  green  flag.  .  .  . 

Now  they  were  alone,  man  and  wife ;  little  more  than 
boy  and  girl,  but  man  and  wife  nevertheless,  although 
when  Manuella  looked  at  her  husband  she  saw  a  stranger. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

THE  George  Inn  at  Wargrave,  where  the  honeymoon 
was  to  be  spent,  is  a  long,  two-storied  house, 
built  at  the  worst  period  of  early  Victorian  architecture, 
and  redecorated  when  it  had  deteriorated  further.  The 
bedrooms  are  low,  but  without  compensating  width. 
There  are  no  bathrooms,  nor  is  hot  water  handy,  while 
the  sanitary  arrangements  are  primitive;  candles  gutter 
in  pewter  candlesticks  on  a  table  at  the  top  of  the  stairs. 
The  new  wall-papers  are  hideously  yellow,  or  unwhole- 
somely  terra-cotta,  with  huge  unnatural  flowers  for 
design.  There  are  compensations,  however.  The  broad 
river  sweeps  by  the  bedroom  windows ;  every  day  save 
Sunday  there  is  peace  in  the  garden  that  slopes  to  it, 
charm  in  the  rafts  to  which  the  boats  are  moored.  On 
Sundays  men  and  maidens  in  boating  costumes  sit  with 
their  tea  or  their  beer,  and  rest  awhile  from  pulling  their 
boats  up  the  river  or  down  the  river.  These  young  men 
and  maidens  have  the  lust  of  movement.  If  they  are  at 
Wargrave  they  must  go  to  Henley,  or  even  to  Sonning; 
it  is  not  enough  for  them  to  drift  into  the  backwater,  tie 
up  their  boats  and  be  still.  They  want  to  take  off  their 
coats,  roll  up  their  sleeves,  row,  and  get  into  a  perspira- 
tion to  show  their  prowess.  Wargrave  is  a  favourite 
haunt,  and  the  "  George  "  overcrowded  for  week-ends  in 
July  and  August,  even  in  September. 

And  the  inn,  badly  built,  badly  furnished  though  it 

148 


CONCERT    PITCH  149 

may  be,  is  admirably  administered.  There  are  no  dirty 
German  waiters,  but  trim  clean  English  maids,  with  the 
spirit  of  alacrity  in  serving;  the  substantial  English  fare 
is  of  the  best  quality,  abundant  and  well  cooked.  It  was 
a  good  place  in  which  to  spend  a  honeymoon.  Harston 
Migotti  and  Manuella  had  it  almost  to  themselves;  the 
flowing  river,  the  quiet  backwater,  the  warm  and  mellow 
autumn.  In  the  backwater  the  sun  shone  through  the 
shifting  leaves  of  the  willows,  the  water  plashed  against 
the  boat,  now  a  water-rat  made  a  quick  irregular  course 
from  bank  to  bank;  a  wagtail  showed  its  sudden  black 
and  white  against  the  green ;  a  blackbird  or  a  linnet 
peeped  upon  them.  But  for  the  most  part  they  saw 
nothing  but  Harston  Migotti.  Both  of  them  saw  the 
same ;  that  was  perhaps  inevitable. 

Manuella  knew,  before  she  had  been  married  many 
hours,  that  she  had  committed  a  crime  in  marrying  him, 
wronging  him  hardly  less  than  herself.  If  she  had  not 
known  it  before,  she  knew  it  when  Waldo's  letter  came  to 
her,  the  answer  to  Lcetitia's,  forwarded  by  some  friendly 
or  unfriendly  hand  from  Gairoch.  Waldo  wrote  better 
than  he  spoke,  he  did  not  halt  with  his  pen.  She  could 
even  read  between  the  lines,  for  those  few  days  of  her 
marriage  had  sharpened  all  her  faculties,  showing  her  her 
irretrievable  folly.  Waldo's  letter  told  her  everything 
she  wanted  to  know,  but  had  not  waited  to  hear.  He 
did  love  her.  Whether  he  laughed  or  bantered,  went 
away  or  stayed,  mattered  nothing.  He  made  it  clear 
that  he  loved  her,  had  only  tried  to  do  what  was  best 
for  her. 

"  I  know  I  can  take  care  of  you  if  you  will  trust  your- 
self to  me.  I  want  you  to  be  happy,  to  be  again  the  girl 
I  met  in  the  boat.  I'll  take  you  to  Rhodesia,  anywhere 
you  want  to  go.  I  think  I  understand  you  now  better 
than  I  did  when  I  was  in  London.  I  love  your  passion 
and  your  pride.  Child  that  you  are,  you  must  not  be 
proud  with  me.  You  gave  me  your  lips !  Oh !  my  dear 
generous  one !  That  was  the  moment  of  my  life.  Wait 
for  me,  think  of  me,  get  over  your  pride,  or  keep  and  let 


150  CONCERT    PITCH 

me  share  it.  Now  that  I  am  away  from  you,  I  know  you 
care  for  me,  and  I'll  make  you  glad  of  it  even  if  then  you 
were  a  little  ashamed.  Sweetheart,  I'm  a  duffer  at  talk- 
ing, there  has  never  been  anyone  to  whom  I  could  talk, 
so  I've  played  Tom  Fool  and  stood  outside.  You  know 
where  you  are  with  me,  don't  you?  In  my  heart  of 
hearts,  and  no  one  has  ever  been  there  before  you.  I  wish 
I  were  younger,  handsomer,  more  like  that  musician  of 
yours ;  but,  as  I  am,  I  believe  you  care  about  me.  It  is 
very  wonderful,  and  I  ought  perhaps  not  to  believe  it. 
But  you  kissed  me,  you  let  me  kiss  you,  and  you  are  my 
Manuella,  beautifully  impulsive,  natural,  honest.  Girlie, 
when  may  I  come  back,  when  will  that  pride  melt  again 
'  as  once  in  June '  ?  It  doesn't  seem  a  long  time  ago ; 
I  often  see  you  in  my  dreams.  ..." 

She  had  been  married  three  days,  and  if  one  looked  at 
her  one  would  have  thought  she  had  been  through  an 
illness.  But  Harston  Migotti,  her  husband,  noticed 
nothing,  for  he  was  absorbed  in  explaining  himself  to  her. 

Her  answer  to  Waldo  was  brief : 

"  I've  just  got  your  letter.  I  married  Harston  Migotti 
at  a  registry  office  nearly  a  week  ago.  You  were  quite 
right,  it  was  my  pride,  and  there  isn't  any  of  it  left.  I 
didn't  know  you  loved  me,  only  that  I  loved  you,  and 
wanted  to  hide  it.  I  ran  away  to  Harston  Migotti  because 
I  was  in  a  rage  with  my  stepmother;  that's  the  truth. 
I'm  going  to  do  my  best,  my  very  best,  that  he  should 
never  know  it.  Goodbye,  don't  write  to  me  ever  again ; 
I've  got  to  live  it  through.  My  stepmother  would  say : 
'  As  I've  made  my  bed  I  must  lie  upon  it.'  I  wish  I  were 
lying  cold  upon  it." 

It  was  true  she  wished  it  after  she  had  Waldo's  letter. 
This  time,  at  least,  she  was  utterly  candid  with  him. 
She  told  him  not  to  write  to  her  again;  she  had  to  put 
him  out  of  her  mind,  out  of  her  heart. 

It  has  been  often  said  that  there  is  no  phenomenon  in 
nature  more  remarkable  than  the  difference  in  perspective 


CONCERT   PITCH  151 

between  a  genius  in  the  distance  and  a  genius  in  the  near- 
ness of  the  domestic  circle.  It  is  not  necessary  to  go  back 
to  the  time  of  Milton.  Biographies,  letters,  innumerable 
diaries,  show  the  greatest  philosopher  of  his  age  wrang- 
ling with  his  wife  over  petty  details  of  domestic  economy, 
morbidly  selfish,  and  still  more  morbidly  introspective, 
his  indigestion  assuming  the  proportions  of  a  disaster, 
and  finally  of  tragedy.  And  only  yesterday  the  fierce 
searchlight  of  the  Divorce  Court  was  turned  upon  an 
interior  where  was  seen  a  man  who  for  half  a  century 
had  held  the  nation  entranced  with  the  magic  of  his  art, 
living  side  by  side,  but  never  together,  with  an  unhappy 
and  neglected  woman  he  could  not  hold  from  throwing 
up  the  impossible  part  of  pretending  any  longer  to  be  his 
loving  or  faithful  wife;  a  woman  estranged  by  long 
silences  and  queer  subtle  inhumanities. 

What  distinguished  Harston  Migotti  from  his  fellows 
was  his  simplicity,  his  ingenuousness,  and,  of  course,  his 
youth.  That,  in  the  effulgence  of  his  genius,  his  wife  or 
comrade  would  be  eclipsed  seemed  to  him  inevitable.  He 
had  a  gift  for  the  world.  At  the  best,  the  wife  of  such  a 
man  could  have  only  a  gift  for  him.  And  perhaps  if  she 
had  loved  him,  however  clearly  she  had  seen  his  attitude 
of  mind  towards  her,  she  would  have  accepted  it  as  the 
right  one.  As  it  was,  she  only  saw  that  he  was  under 
a  misapprehension,  and  one  that  must  never  be  put 
right. 

After  Manuella  had  had  Waldo's  letter  and  answered 
it,  there  seemed  nothing  she  desired  more  strongly  than 
to  prove  to  him,  to  Lord  Lyssons  who  would  never  know, 
and  to  herself  who  must  have  this  solace,  that  it  was  true 
she  was  "  honest."  Passionate  she  had  been,  wrong- 
headed  and  impetuous.  She  had  wronged  Harston  little 
less  than  herself.  She  had  to  amend  that  wrong,  to  see 
that  he  missed  nothing,  to  meet  his  needs.  Madame 
Liebius  and  Gerald  Streatfield  had  told  her  how  this  was 
to  be  done,  although  she  had  not  understood  them  at  once. 
If  she  had  a  personality,  it  was  to  be  effaced,  subordi- 
nated. If  her  married  life  was  to  be  a  duet,  it  was  one  in 


152  CONCERT   PITCH 

which  she  must  always  play  the  bass ;  if  they  were  to  be 
one,  he  was  the  one  they  must  be. 

At  eighteen  the  lesson  of  personal  insignificance  is  a 
difficult  one  to  learn.  Harston  Migotti,  her  young  genius 
of  a  husband,  did  not  know  that  all  the  time  in  these  first 
days  of  his  honeymoon  he  was  teaching  it  to  her.  He 
often  said  how  much  in  love  with  her  he  was,  and  talked 
of  the  emotions  she  gave  him,  and  the  influence  they 
would  have  upon  his  art. 

Although  he  insisted  he  was  an  Englishman,  with  an 
English  father,  and,  notwithstanding  his  Italian  mother, 
he  had  the  German  attitude  of  mind  towards  women. 
When  his  passions  moved  him  he  took  the  response  for 
granted.  When  they  walked  out,  he  went  always  a  little 
ahead.  When  he  talked,  he  rarely  waited  for  an  answer. 

And  how  he  talked !  He  could  be  silent  equally  over- 
whelmingly, but  this  she  did  not  learn  so  soon.  During 
that  first  week  at  Wargrave,  she  heard  all  the  story  of 
his  life.  He  talked  of  it  at  breakfast  and  again  at  dinner, 
lay  in  the  bottom  of  the  boat  and  dilated  upon  its  sig- 
nificance; walked  between  the  hedges  in  the  English 
lanes  in  gloaming  or  even-time,  and  said  there  would 
come  a  day  when  the  romance  of  his  life  could  not  be 
hidden. 

"  It  is  leader  of  the  people  I  should  be  perhaps,  but 
instead,  I  will  write  their  music.  A  man  once  said  he- 
cared  not  who  made  the  people's  laws  if  he  could  make 
their  ballads.  It  is  not  ballads  I  will  write,  but  a  National 
Music ;  the  whole  spirit  of  England  shall  be  in  my  songs, 
already  it  is  in  all  my  '  Chariot  Queen.  .  .  .'  " 

She  knew  that  she  had  made  a  mistake,  blundered 
irreparably.  Everything  that  was  fine  in  her — and  but 
for  her  stepmother  all  might  have  been  fine — went  to 
filament  with  which  to  hide  the  knowledge  upon  which 
she  would  fain  not  look;  she  spun  cocoon  hiding-places 
for  it ;  some  day  a  butterfly  might  emerge,  very  rare  and 
beautiful,  but  now  all  she  must  do  was  to  spin  a  hiding- 
place  for  her  mistake. 

She  had  not  been  a  religious  girl,  but  in  her  loneliness 


CONCERT    PITCH  153 

she  felt  the  necessity  of  prayer.  She  began  to  pray; 
it  was  really  only  a  wild  call  for  help,  but  this  was  the 
form  it  took.  "  Oh,  God,  help  me  to  be  a  good  wife  to 
him ! "  These  were  the  words  in  which  she  clothed  her 
self-doubt.  She  prayed  that  his  egotism  should  become 
her  egotism,  that  she  should  not  begin  to  criticize  him. 

"  I  want  to  be  good,"  she  cried,  in  the  passion  of  revolt 
and  revelation  of  those  early  days  of  her  marriage. 
"  Help  me  to  do  my  duty  to  him,  to  give  myself  up  com- 
pletely. Make  me  a  good  wife,  dear  God !  I  want  to  be 
better  than  I  have  been,  not  to  be  always  sorry  and  .  .  . 
and  ashamed.  I  didn't  know  what  I  was  doing.  .  .  . 
I  didn't  understand.  Help  me,  God !  " 

Blindly  she  had  run  away,  bungled  into  a  morass; 
now  she  was  desperate  to  find  a  plank. 

"  If  I  do  everything  he  wants,  if  I  never  think  at  all 
about  myself,  and  live  only  for  him,  it  will  get  better? 
I  can't  always  have  this  pain  at  my  heart.  I  will  be 
good.  ..." 

She  was  already  a  woman,  but  it  was  the  child's  heart 
that  prayed.  Later  on  she  found  her  strength  in  action 
and  not  in  prayer.  It  was  the  pain  of  dying  childhood 
that  cried  and  she  soon  rid  herself  of  the  habit. 

This  was  a  man  of  genius  to  whom  she  had  given  her- 
self, a  young  genius,  to  whose  first  passion  she  was  dedi- 
cate, consecrate  or  a  mere  sacrifice.  Her  eyes  knew  hot 
burning  tears,  her  lips  framed  prayers,  but  only  at  first. 

"  This  will  enrich  all  my  art,"  he  whispered. 

"  I  must  do  whatever  he  says,"  her  desperate  conscience 
answered.  "  I  ran  away  from  home  to  marry  him ;  it 
is  all  my  own  fault." 

The  story  of  Harston  Migotti's  life,  told  to  Manuella 
at  such  length  in  these  honeymoon  days,  can  be  made 
quite  short.  Behind  the  story  can  be  seen  his  ideals,  his 
dreams,  and  what  inspired  them.  Justice  must  be  done 
to  him,  he  had  a  strange  origin. 

His  first  remembrance  was  of  being  one  of  a  little 
family,  himself  the  smallest  of  them  all,  in  Darmstadt. 
The  mother,  whom  he  called  "  Mutterchen,"  but  whom  he 


i54  CONCERT    PITCH 

always  knew  was  not  his  mother,  sang  in  the  theatre. 
She  was  Italian,  but  sang  in  the  German  manner,  and 
in  Wagner's  operas ;  he  did  not  know  how  he  heard  that, 
but  he  told  it  to  Manuella  as  one  of  his  earliest  recollec- 
tions. Her  German  husband  was  one  of  the  first  violins 
in  the  orchestra,  and  from  the  time  Harston  could  hear 
at  all,  it  was  always  music  he  heard.  Before  he  was 
five  years  old  he  could  play,  not  only  the  violin,  but  the 
piano,  and  all  the  people  that  came  to  the  little  house 
called  him  "  The  Infant  Mozart." 

Once,  and  it  was  not  a  thing  a  dreamer  of  five  years 
old  could  forget,  he  heard  "  Mutterchen  "  say  in  Italian, 
which  was  the  first  language  he  learned :  "  One  day  he 
will  be  a  king  among  musicians."  And  her  husband, 
who  played  the  violin,  and  taught  him,  whom  he  loved, 
and  looked  up  to  as  a  child  looks  up  to  his  master, 
answered  laconically,  his  finger  on  a  string: 

"  If  he  had  his  rights,  it  would  not  be  among  musicians 
only  that  he  would  be  a  king." 

A  belief  in  some  grand  and  mysterious  origin  grew 
with  his  growth.  He  was  many  years  older  before  he 
knew  that  he  had  no  rights,  no  rights  at  all,  not  to  the 
name  he  bore,  nor  to  any  name.  But  by  this  time  the 
knowledge  could  not  hurt  him,  for  he  had  his  own  king- 
dom, playing  by  his  adopted  father's  side.  In  the  early 
years  he  loved  the  piano  more  than  the  violin.  But  what 
he  loved  most  of  all  was  playing  his  own  dreams,  the 
harmonies  that  came  to  him.  Wide  and  luminous  was 
that  kingdom  of  his,  full  of  glory.  He  was  conscious  of 
high  destiny.  What  is  bastardy  to  the  gods? 

The  blood  of  an  English  prince  ran  in  his  own  veins, 
and  soon  he  knew  it  was  to  England  he  would  take  his 
gift.  He  learned  the  language  and  history  of  this 
country;  was  it  not  his  own?  At  eighteen  he  spoke 
English  almost  fluently.  The  acquisition  of  languages 
came  naturally  to  him.  He  had  no  hesitation  in  telling 
his  new  wife  how  easily  he  learned,  and  that  all  Darm- 
stadt was  proud  of  him. 

"  When  I  walked  in  the  streets  everyone  knew  me 


CONCERT    PITCH  155 

and  turned  to  look.  At  five  years  old  I  was  as  beautiful 
as  an  angel.  My  hair  hung  in  curls,  like  pale  gold  with 
the  sun  on  it  I  was  dressed  always  in  velvet.  ..." 

Manuella  saw  the  vision  he  conjured  up — the  Wonder 
Child,  like  Mozart,  with  the  width  between  his  blue  eyes, 
and  the  broad  white  brows.  She  saw  him  as  he  played 
too;  the  little  fingers  on  the  keys,  the  rapt  expression. 
Harston  told  her  of  that  quite  simply. 

"  When  I  played  I  was  absorbed  in  the  music.  Some- 
times they  said  I  was  like  John  the  Baptist,  but  more 
often  that  I  was  like  Mozart.  ..." 

It  seemed  there  had  always  been  money  for  his  educa- 
tion ;  some  protecting  hand  from  afar  stretched  out  over 
those  early  years. 

"  I  cannot  remember  when  I  first  heard  that  my  mother 
died  when  I  was  born.  She  was  Muttercheris  younger 
sister.  Before  she  made  her  first  appearance  in  Opera 
she  met  the  Prince.  He  was  only  eighteen,  and  she  a 
year  younger.  Ah !  but  theirs  was  a  short  love  dream !  " 

There  was  a  tradition  in  the  Darmstadt  family  of  a 
wholly  unexpected  visit,  wholly  unexpected  because  it 
was  understood  that  it  was  always  to  be  a  secret  who 
was  the  father  of  the  child  they  had  adopted. 

When  he  came,  all  the  papers  were  full  of  the  great 
wedding  preparations  being  made  for  him  in  his  own 
country.  Afterwards  they  heard  there  had  been  a  short 
paragraph  announcing  that  the  bridegroom  had  con- 
tracted a  chill,  and  was  confined  to  his  room  for  a  few 
days.  He  may  have  been  ill;  everybody  knew  his  heart 
was  not  in  the  marriage.  But  when  the  papers  said  he 
was  confined  to  his  room,  he  made  that  hurried  surrep- 
titious journey  to  see  his  son,  to  bid  good-bye  to  the  old 
life  before  entering  on  the  new.  Mutterchen  said  he 
looked  very  young,  slender,  fair,  not  at  all  happy. 

"  Sometimes  I  seem  to  remember  him.  I  know  he  ex- 
claimed :  '  Why,  he  is  quite  a  little  Englishman ! ' 
That  was  because  my  hair  was  so  fair.  They  all  re- 
member he  said  that.  Very  soon  afterwards  came  the 
news  of  his  death  from  pneumonia." 


156  CONCERT   PITCH 

Harston  had  an  income;  he  spoke  of  it  carelessly; 
it  had  always  been  enough  for  his  needs.  He  told  her 
that  money  would  come  quickly  enough  when  the  opera 
was  finished.  In  the  meantime,  three  hundred  a  year 
was  almost  a  fortune.  He  had  really  been  well  educated, 
although  music  had  stood  in  the  way  of  his  studies.  He 
spoke  regretfully  of  a  young  English  tutor  who  had 
tried  to  teach  him  Latin  and  Greek.  No  expense  had 
been  spared.  Then  Steinhault  came  to  Darmstadt,  and 
diverted  all  his  life,  creating  new  ambitions.  He  wanted 
to  be  Steinhault's  pupil,  but  the  master  no  longer  took 
pupils.  Harston  told  his  young  wife  how  he  had  first 
played  to  Steinhault. 

"  He  was  smoking,  steadily  puffing  away  at  his  pipe, 
indifferent.  I  played  and  he  puffed.  I  began  to  im- 
provise, he  left  off  puffing.  I  forgot  to  think  about  him, 
and  put  my  life  and  my  soul  into  my  playing.  '  But  you 
are  a  young  fool/  was  all  he  said,  '  you  cannot  play  at  all. 
Find  me  matches.  My  pipe  has  gone  out.'  After  that 
he  thrust  me  from  the  piano-stool  and  played  himself; 
he  played  to  me — to  me  alone !  There  is  no  one  like 
Steinhault;  some  day  you  shall  know  him." 

"  I  meant  him  to  take  me  as  his  pupil,"  he  told 
Manuella  simply.  "  I  always  get  what  I  want,"  he  added, 
just  as  simply.  And  up  to  now  it  had  been  true.  He 
won  Steinhault,  and  much,  later,  when  he  had  learnt  all 
Steinhault  could  teach  him,  he  won  what  was  far  more 
difficult,  the  freedom  to  leave  him. 

"  And  now  I  have  you,"  he  finished  triumphantly.  His 
hand  caressed  her  hair.  The  soft  warmth  of  her  brought 
keen,  sweet,  new  pleasures  to  him ;  already  he  heard 
them  in  the  violins.  Love  was  for  strings,  he  knew  that 
already.  He  had  known  it  before,  through  Wagner ;  but 
he  understood  it  better  now. 

He  had  travelled  far  with  Steinhault,  serving  and 
learning.  Three  times  to  America,  on  long  concert  tours 
throughout  the  States,  in  Russia  twice,  and  at  last, 
only  two  years  ago,  he  came  to  England  by  himself.  And 
here  he  had  stayed.  Not  Steinhault's  insistent  letters,  nor 


CONCERT   PITCH  157 

all  his  rage,  remonstrance  and  appeal,  could  move  him 
from  his  choice. 

"  It  is  my  country,"  I  wrote  him,  "  my  own  country. 
It  is  here  I  will  stay,  and  grow  more  at  home  in  the 
language,  and  study,  and  it  is  here  I  will  make  my  name. 
In  their  folk  songs  I  hear  their  National  music,  the  dumb 
sleeping  music  of  their  nation.  I  will  do  for  this,  my 
father's  country,  what  Beethoven,  Wagner  and  Schubert 
have  done  for  Germany,  Grieg  for  Scandinavia, 
Tschaikowsky  for  Russia,  Debussy  for  France.  I  will  do 
all  this  and  more.  People  shall  come  from  far  off  to 
hear  my  English  music,  even  as  they  go  now  to  Bayreuth 
to  hear  Wagner's." 

Steinhault  still  protested ;  the  pianist,  who  had  neither 
kith  nor  kin,  commanded,  coaxed,  stormed  at  the  boy's 
resolution. 

"  You  shall  be  my  son,"  he  wrote.  Harston  told  this 
part  lightly,  but  Manuella  understood  that  the  harsh  man 
who  growled  and  stormed  but  never  praised,  had  grown 
attached  to  the  "  Wonder  Boy  "  who  had  followed  him 
round  the  world. 

"  He  could  teach  me  no  more.  I  knew  I  should  never 
play  as  he  played,  no  one  else  can  play  with  just  that 
technique.  I  have  more  expression;  I  interpret  in  my 
own  way,  and  when  I  am  in  a  mood.  The  other  night, 
now,  it  was  to  you  I  was  playing;  no  one  could  have 
played  the  Trio  as  I  played  it  that  night,  not  Steinhault 
himself.  He  would  have  played  it  better,  perhaps,  but 
not  so  wonderfully,  you  understand.  It  is  I  who  sway 
the  emotions,  Steinhault  who  moves  the  intellect." 

That  was  almost  all  the  story.  He  had  abandoned 
Steinhault  almost  as  easily  as  he  had  abandoned  the 
Darmstadters,  who  had  so  proudly  nurtured  his  youth. 
The  path  of  a  genius  is  wide  and  lonely,  and  what  he  sees 
is  always  far  off,  in  the  dim  distance.  Always  in  the 
stretch  of  firmament  above  him  the  sun  is  behind  clouds. 
It  is  to  fling  a  radiant  glory  on  his  journey's  end,  the 
journey  that  never  ends. 

"  I  could  have  had  "engagements.     Madame  Liebius 


158  CONCERT    PITCH 

is  also  a  sister  of  '  Mutterchen,'  a  still  younger  sister.  I 
could  always  have  played  her  accompaniments.  But 
that  night,  that  night  at  your  father's  house,  was  the 
only  time  I  have  played  for  her  in  public.  All  the  other 
time,  all  these  two  years,  I  have  been  studying  your 
language,  your  folk-songs,  the  songs  of  your  country- 
side. 

"  To  leave  Steinhault,  to  stay  in  England  was  an 
impulse;  but  now  I  know  it  was  Providence  that  guided 
me,  that  always  guides  men  like  me.  All  of  a  sudden  that 
night,  when  no  one  knew  me  in  the  room,  and  no  soul 
in  your  great  hall,  it  came  to  me  that  I  must  play  to  them, 
must  let  them  hear  me.  I  knew  how  it  would  be.  But  in 
the  end  it  was  to  you  I  played.  Now  I  continue  to  write. 
Your  England  will  have  its  National  music,  its  great 
opera  that  will  be  greater  than  the  Niebelungen  Ring. 
We  will  go  home  soon  now,  my  little  wife,  it  is  singing  in 
my  ears  all  the  time,  the  song  motif  of  my  opera.  It  is 
the  '  Wedding  March  '  that  interrupted  it.  But  now  the 
'  Wedding  March  '  is  written ;  I  have  finished  with  it. 
Let  us  go  home." 

That  evening,  the  evening  he  said  the  "  Wedding 
March  "  was  no  longer  in  his  head,  distracting  him,  they 
stood  together  on  the  verandah.  The  words  he  had  used 
unwittingly  struck  cold  on  her  hot  heart.  He  stood 
silent  by  her  side.  She  saw  the  moon's  reflection  on  the 
water,  and  the  shadows  stretch  from  the  backwater. 
The  trees  were  black,  the  rising  mist  was  grey  and  sad, 
and  the  greyness  and  sadness  were  the  life  to  which 
she  would  return  with  him.  Already  she  had  learnt, 
and  knew  that  when  he  was  silent  she  must  not  speak. 
It  was  in  silence  he  heard  his  music.  All  the  rare  sounds 
by  day,  reeds  and  rushes  purling,  leaves  swaying,  water 
plashing;  all  the  mysterious  murmur  of  night,  peewits 
twittering,  wind  in  the  tree  tops,  the  rumble  of  a  distant 
train,  resolved  themselves  for  him  into  harmonies  and 
discords,  into  his  English  music. 

"  I  hear  rain,"  he  said.    "  Hush !    I  hear  rain." 

And  in  five  minutes  it  was  upon  them,  plashing  in 


CONCERT    PITCH  159 

great  drops  on  the  broad  surface  of  the  river.  At  first 
it  was  good  to  see  it  fall,  making  strange  lights  and 
sounds  in  the  water,  strange  shapes  too,  circles  and 
widening  circles,  broken  circles ;  but  presently  she  began 
to  shiver.  He  stood  watching  a  long  time  after  she 
had  gone  in.  Later  he  was  no  longer  silent. 

"  Hardly  any  one  but  Wagner  has  written  his  own 
libretto  to  his  own  music.  But  I  am  writing  my  own 
libretto ;  the  words  are  borne  to  me  in  the  music.  Oh ! 
how  well  I  know  your  Boadicea  and  your  England : 

'  Fear  not,  isle  of  blowing  woodland,  isle  of  silvery  parapets, 
Tho'  the  Roman  eagle  shadow  thee,  tho'  the  gathering  enemy 

narrow  thee, 

Thou  shalt  wax,  and  he  shall  dwindle,  thou  shalt  be  the  mighty 
one  yet!' 

I  will  write  it  better  than  that,  but  that  is  my  theme. 
Oh !  my  wife,  my  little  darling  of  a  wife,  how  proud  you 
will  be  of  me  when  I  have  made  my  great  English  Opera, 
when  at  last  you  have  a  National  Music.  ..." 

They  went  home  the  next  day.  The  rain  was  still  fall- 
ing, the  river  grey  white,  streaked  and  dirty,  empty 
bottles,  baskets,  paper  and  dead  fish  floating  on  its  wind- 
swept, rain-swept  bosom.  She  saw  it  when  she  leaned 
from  the  bedroom  window,  the  cab  at  the  door,  the 
luggage  strapped.  She  was  as  cold  as  the  river ;  it  was  to 
her  youth  she  said  good-bye — to  Manuella  of  the  child- 
heart.  Henceforth  and  for  ever  she  was  only  Harston 
Migotti's  wife.  She  would  listen  to  his  music.  But  the 
grey  years  would  be  as  the  grey  river,  and  she  shivered 
as  she  shut  the  window  and  went  down  to  join  him  where 
he  stood  beside  the  station  cab. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

THEIR  married  life  began  in  the  rooms  Harston 
Migotti  had  occupied  as  a  bachelor,  the  rooms  in 
Bedford  Square. 

"  I  like  them ;  I  feel  at  home  here,"  he  said. 
Manuella  never  questioned  the  arrangement;  the  days 
before  her  marriage  were  too  few,  her  mind  was  too 
numbed. 

The  house  was  very  old,  built  in  the  days  when  no 
party-wall  was  less  than  two  feet  thick,  when  partitions 
were  not  mere  lath  and  plaster,  nor  floors  made  of  only 
half-inch  boards.  Everything  was  strong,  silent,  sub- 
stantial. The  rooms  on  the  top  floor  had  been  the 
nurseries  of  the  house  in  the  days  when  it  was  occupied 
by  the  well-known  Quaker  family  of  Elias  Underwood 
and  Dame  Ursula  his  wife,  with  their  family  of  thirteen 
children.  There  were  beams  in  the  ceiling,  joists  in  the 
wide  fireplaces,  the  little  windows  with  the  small  panes  of 
glass  had  deep  eaves  and  quaint  gargoyles.  The  fact 
that  there  was  no  hot  water,  nor  bath,  nor  sanitation  and 
no  electric  light,  had  preserved  his  solitude  to  Migotti. 
He  missed  none  of  them.  Here  he  had  lived  during  the 
two  years  he  had  passed  in  England  before  his  marriage. 
In  the  front  room  was  his  grand  piano,  standing  upon  the 
moth-eaten  carpet  that  must  have  lain  undisturbed  for 
at  least  a  century.  Around  him  were  wood-panelled 
walls,  the  paint  faded  to  a  greyish  brown.  There  was 
a  rough,  ricketty  kitchen  table,  and  there  were  many 

1 60 


CONCERT    PITCH  161 

chairs,  no  two  of  which  were  alike.  In  his  bedroom  were 
a  huge,  wooden  four-poster,  the  bedding,  once  of  feathers, 
now  of  dust,  a  common  deal  washstand  with  a  cracked 
Derby  basin  and  two  jugs,  a  bow-fronted  chest  of 
drawers,  a  pair  of  tallboys,  a  dressing-table  like  a  box 
with  a  hand-silvered  obscure  glass  in  the  lid. 

The  Misses  Underwood,  maiden  ladies,  vague  distant 
relics  of  the  ancient  family,  kept  their  poor  tradition  in 
the  stately  empty  rooms  on  the  first  floor,  from  which 
they  had  sold  most  of  the  furniture. 

Gerald  Streatfield  rented  a  small  back  room  on  the 
lower  floor. 

Such  was  the  home  to  which  Harston  brought  his 
bride.  He  saw  no  lack  in  it. 

"  I  am  glad  to  be  at  home  again,"  he  said  to  her  on  the 
evening  they  came  from  Wargrave.  "  In  all  London 
Gerald  tells  me  there  is  nothing  like  these  rooms,  so  big 
and  quiet,  where  I  can  play  all  day  and  all  night,  where 
I  am  alone." 

She  came  to  him  from  Stone  House,  from  Gairoch, 
where  she  had  the  comfort  of  her  own  maid,  her  porcelain 
bath,  the  electric  lamp  by  her  bed,  dainty  food  brought  to 
her  in  delicate  china,  fine  glass,  lace  and  embroidered 
napery. 

"  They  are  fine  rooms,  are  they  not  ?  Oh !  how  happy 
I  shall  be  now  that  you  are  here  in  them  with  me.  I 
always  knew  it  would  be  here  I  should  finish  my  opera." 

Within  two  days  of  their  home-coming  he  scarcely 
remembered  that  he  had  a  wife,  that  things  were  any 
different  from  what  they  had  been  with  him  a  month  ago. 
Then  he  was  but  studying,  making  notes,  filling  his  mind 
with  English  folk-lore,  and  folk-song,  the  material  with 
which  he  would  work.  He  was  in  the  white  heat  of  crea- 
tion before  the  honeymoon  waned,  before  the  month 
was  passed. 

Coming  up  in  the  train  he  had  talked  of  Tennyson, 
and  Coleridge,  exulting  because  neither  poet  had  written 
the  story,  the  great  epic. 

"  Mine  will  be  so  different  from  theirs,  it  will  be  true 


162  CONCERT    PITCH 

tone-poetry.  My  oboes  and  my  flutes  will  voice  wood- 
land England.  Already  I  hear  the  war-cry  of  Boadicea 
ringing  triumphantly  on  the  wind." 

Sometimes  in  the  streets  one  sees  a  barrel-organ,  a 
cradle  attached  to  it,  in  which,  wrapped  in  rags,  lies 
a  sleeping,  or  whining  baby,  pale  and  puny.  A  swarthy 
man  with  a  red  scarf  round  his  throat  turns  the  handle, 
a  woman  with  big  gilt  earrings  and  white  smiling  teeth, 
invites  charity  and  collects  coppers.  Whenever  in  the 
after  days  Manuella  saw  such  a  group,  she  stopped  to 
look  at  them,  remembering  that  strange  old  house,  its 
carved  staircase  uncarpeted,  the  walls  broken  in  places, 
the  plaster  falling,  and  the  fine  cornices  covered  with 
spiders'  webs.  She,  too,  like  that  baby,  slept  and  woke 
to  the  turning  of  the  handle ;  she  was  never  away  from 
the  sound  of  her  husband's  opera.  It  was  immortal 
,music  that  ran  from  his  trained  fingers,  that  sang  gruffly 
and  inadequately  from  his  throat,  that  filled  the  rooms. 
She  had  called  herself  musical,  hearing  music  as  from  an 
enchanted  garden ;  but  the  very  music  of  the  spheres 
may  sound  too  close,  drowning  all  else.  She  was  like 
the  baby  in  the  basket,  sleeping  and  waking  to  sound. 

Without  Gerald  Streatfield  she  would  not  have  known 
how  to  manage  her  housekeeping;  she  was  bewildered 
at  her  position. 

Gerald  came  to  her  early  on  the  first  morning  of  their 
homecoming.  He  knocked  at  the  bedroom  door  and 
entered  quite  without  ceremony.  Harston  was  already 
at  the  piano,  and  of  course  he  could  not  be  disturbed. 

"  I  came  up  early  on  purpose.  He  has  already  started, 
I  find ;  I  heard  him  as  I  came  up.  Do  you  know  where 
everything  is,  how  to  manage?  I  did  it  all  for  him 
before  you  came.  There  is  only  one  little  maid-of-all- 
work.  ..." 

Gerald  Streatfield  is  of  no  more  interest  to  this  story 
than  an  echo  to  a  voice.  He  was  about  eight-and-twenty, 
wore  his  hair  parted  in  the  middle,  and  curled  his 
moustache  at  the  ends ;  he  earned  his  living  as  an  assistant 
in  the  music-publishing  house  of  Messrs.. Munzay  and  Co. 


CONCERT    PITCH  163 

But  he  was  an  enthusiast,  a  hero-worshipper,  and  no 
mean  performer  on  the  violin.  When  he  met  Steinhault 
on  the  continent  he  felt  capable  of  kissing  the  platform 
upon  which  his  hero's  feet  had  trod.  Now  it  was  to 
Harston  Migotti  that  his  enthusiasm  was  eagerly  and 
swiftly  transferred.  He  became  his  slavish  admirer,  his 
most  ardent  follower;  dreaming  of  being  a  Seidl,  or  a 
Theodor  Uhlig  to  this  English  Wagner,  or  as  Nietzsche 
in  the  early  days.  Gerald  was  well-read  in  his  subject. 
At  the  worst  he  could  play  Boswell  or  Pennell,  gathering 
up  the  fragments  of  wisdom  or  discarded  notes  let  fall 
by  the  master.  Harston  Migotti  was  young,  but  that 
he  would  be  a  master  there  was  no  doubt. 

"  You  won't  put  me  out  of  your  life,  you  will  let  me 
share  both  your  lives?  You  see,  I  understand  him  so 
well ;  for  nearly  two  years  I  have  studied  his  moods," 
Gerald  pleaded  to  Manuella,  before  even  he  had  shown 
her  where  the  big  tin  bath  was  kept,  under  the  mouldy 
bed,  and  the  oil  stove  at  which  they  cooked,  and  on 
which  they  made  tea  or  coffee. 

On  the  first  morning  the  maid-of-all-work  brought  up 
their  breakfast. 

"  I  inspected  the  tray  before  it  came  up,  I  know  what 
he  likes,"  he  said  enthusiastically.  "  Of  course  he  would 
go  without  food  altogether  if  some  one  did  not  look  after 
him.  When  the  mood  is  on  him,  the  inspiration,  he 
neither  eats  nor  drinks.  I  have  known  him  go  twenty- 
four  hours  without  food."  He  said  this  solemnly ;  he  had 
underlined  it  in  his  diary. 

It  appeared  that  neither  Harston  Migotti  nor  Gerald 
took  many  meals  in  Bedford  Square. 

"  We  go  out  to  restaurants,  there  are  any  number  of 
them  in  the  neighbourhood,  tea-shops,  eating-houses, 
hotels.  Sometimes  we  go  further,  into  Fleet  Street, 
the  Strand,  or  Leicester  Square,  it  all  depends  how  he 
feels.  I  always  seem  to  know,  he  leaves  it  to  me.  '  And 
where  are  we  going  to-day  ?  '  he  asks,  '  I  have  an  appetite 
like  a  hunter,'  or  '  I  have  no  appetite  at  all ! '  One  never 
knows  with  him." 


1 64  CONCERT    PITCH 

It  did  not  seem  in  the  least  strange  to  Gerald  that  this 
young  and  beautiful  girl  should  be  content  to  share  their 
Bohemian  meals,  and  put  up  with  the  same  incon- 
veniences. Was  it  not  natural  that  she  should  be  glad 
and  willing  to  share  any  life  with  Harston  Migotti  ?  Be- 
cause he  was  a  hero-worshipper,  and  Harston  the  hero,  it 
seemed  to  him  impossible  it  could  be  otherwise  with  her. 

She  fell  in  with  his  views.  If  she  had  blundered  no 
one  must  ever  know  it.  Perhaps  her  prayers  helped  her, 
perhaps  it  was  only  her  fineness  becoming  clear  after  her 
yeasty  and  impetuous  youth,  but,  in  any  case,  she  settled 
to  her  circumstances,  and  took  up  the  burden  of  her  days 
as  if  love  lightened  them.  Neither  Harston  nor  Gerald, 
nor  any  of  the  few  friends  who  came  to  the  rooms  in 
Bedford  Square,  doubted  that  she  loved  her  gifted 
husband. 

After  the  brief  passion  of  his  honeymoon  Harston 
swung  back  with  fresh  impetus  to  his  opera.  Very  soon 
Manuella  knew  his  ways  almost  as  well  as  Gerald.  He 
would  write  or  compose  for  hours,  hours  during  which 
no  one  must  disturb  him.  He  had  no  fixed  times  for 
meals;  he  fed  on  his  inspiration.  She  must  be  on  hand 
when  he  emerged,  ready  to  minister  to  him.  Many  of 
these  meals  were  completely  silent,  his  mind  was  still 
absent ;  he  was  still  listening,  phrasing,  composing. 
Sometimes,  in  the  midst  of  them,  he  would  go  back 
hurriedly  to  his  desk  or  his  piano. 

The  music  came  to  him  more  easily  than  the  libretto. 
This  she  gathered  from  him  or  from  Gerald.  She  under- 
stood quickly  that  he  did  not  like  to  be  questioned  about 
his  work.  If  he  was  in  the  humour  to  talk  of  it  all  was 
well,  but  even  then  he  resented  questioning.  His  temper 
was  extraordinarily  uneven,  his  hours  of  sociability  as 
rare  as  pockets  in  an  alluvial  mine.  He  was  passionately 
in  love  with  his  young  wife,  or  so  he  believed.  But  in 
reality  he  loved  and  worshipped  only  his  gift  and  she  was 
but  a  hand-maiden  in  the  outer  temple.  She  learnt  to 
serve ;  that  was  the  hard  lesson  of  those  early  months  of 
her  married  life — to  wait  and  serve. 


CONCERT    PITCH  165 

When  his  work  flagged  and  his  inspiration  failed,  he 
would  go  for  long,  solitary  walks.  Gerald  told  her  that 
exercise  was  necessary  to  him,  and  loneliness  inevitable. 

"  He  hears  when  he  is  alone,"  he  explained,  with  some- 
thing of  awe  upon  him.  "  You  can  understand  that, 
can't  you?  We  interrupt  him  when  we  speak,  or  when 
he  is  conscious  of  our  presence ;  he  is  listening  to  some- 
thing we  cannot  hear." 

He  was  sometimes  out  for  eight  and  twelve  hours; 
tramping  the  Embankment,  or  further  afield,  on  the 
Heath  at  Hampstead  or  in  the  lanes  of  Hendon,  hearing 
new  melodies,  harmonies  beyond  the  telling,  song  and 
intersong.  But  he  never  heard  the  beat  of  that  lonely  or 
rebellious  heart  that  lay  at  night  beside  his  own.  He 
thought  he  was  all  a  husband  should  be  to  her,  often 
passionately  fond. 

She  had  to  find  occupation  to  justify  and  fill  her  days. 
Ultimately  she  worked  at  her  strange  housekeeping  with 
all  the  energy  of  her  incoherent  despair.  It  proved 
incredibly  helpful ;  what,  in  the  beginning,  was  an  un- 
congenial necessity,  became,  in  the  end,  and  comparatively 
soon,  a  grateful  alternative  to  idleness,  and  an  incentive 
to  exert  her  intelligence.  She  found  she,  too,  had  gifts, 
and  began  to  exercise  them.  She  was  less  unhappy  after 
that,  her  conscience  applauding  her.  She  could  at  least 
make  home  for  him. 

The  large  and  airy  rooms  were  almost  incredibly  dirty 
when  she  came  to  them.  She  found  it  out,  and  Gerald 
admitted  it  ruefully.  There  was  only  one  maid-servant, 
and  there  were  many  stairs. 

"  He  hates  to  have  anything  disturbed.  ..." 

Because  Harston  hated  to  have  anything  disturbed, 
Manuella's  task  was  more  difficult,  and  perhaps  on  that 
account  better  worth  doing.  Cleanliness  was  essential  to 
her  and  it  had  to  be  accomplished  when  he  was  out.  Her 
own  indefatigable  personal  energy  was  supplemented  by 
the  hurriedly-summoned  charwoman.  There  was  fortu- 
nately no  lack  of  money.  Harston  willingly  handed  over 
his  income  to  her. 


i66  CONCERT    PITCH 

"  I  don't  want  to  have  anything  but  my  opera  in  my 
mind.  Do  what  you  like  with  the  money,  only  do  not 
weary  me  about  it.  That  is  a  wife's  function,  to  make  it 
go  far.  I  am  sure  my  beloved  will  know  how  it  is  done. 
Gerald  says  I  am  extravagant,  but  now  you  will  be  my 
purse-bearer." 

It  was  wonderful  how  quickly  she  grew  to  her  respon- 
sibilities ;  Gerald  was  always  at  hand  to  help.  He  knew, 
for  instance,  that  Harston's  capital  was  invested  in  some 
stock,  the  interest  of  which  was  paid  quarterly.  A 
quarter's  income  became  due  a  few  days  after  they  came 
home  from  Wargrave,  and  it  was  then  Harston  pushed 
the  cheque  over  to  her,  and  said  she  was  to  do  what  she 
liked  with  the  money. 

No  one  would  have  believed  the  millionaire's  daughter 
would  become  so  quickly  practical,  or  what  a  help  it  was 
to  her  to  have  things  to  do.  She  learnt  makeshift  from 
Gerald,  and  something  from  the  charwoman,  but  much 
was  her  own  discovery.  The  floors  were  scrubbed,  made 
aromatic  with  soap  and  soda.  She  bought  a  new  carpet, 
a  mattress,  a  large  double  washstand,  a  second  bath. 
Tottenham  Court  Road  was  handy;  she  may  be  said  to 
have  gone  to  school  at  Shoolbred's.  There  were  incred- 
ible difficulties  to  be  overcome,  of  which  not  the  least 
was  that  all  work  had  to  be  stopped  when  Harston  was 
at  home.  Gas  was  already  laid  on  downstairs;  it  had  to 
be  brought  upstairs,  and  trained  to  a  cooking-stove.  It 
was  some  compensation  that  the  top  floor  was  really 
roomy;  the  wide  landing  sufficient  for  both  kitchen  and 
larder.  The  Brothers  Adam  had  been  liberal  in  cup- 
boards; one  of  these,  when  the  shelves  were  taken  out, 
was  made  to  hold  a  geyser  and  the  new  bath.  She  found 
solace  in  making  these  contrivances,  in  shopping,  market- 
ing, and  learning  to  cook.  When  Harston  awoke  from  a 
day  and  a  half  of  complete  silence  to  praise  the  coffee  it 
seemed  to  make  everything  worth  while.  Her  omelettes 
and  toast,  the  different  ways  in  which  she  found  eggs 
could  be  cooked,  interested,  and  almost  absorbed,  her. 
It  was  of  little  consequence  that  she  spoiled  a  few  things ; 


CONCERT   PITCH  167 

she  could  afford  to  replace  them.  Seventy  pounds  for 
three  months  seemed  an  almost  inexhaustible  sum  when 
it  went  out  in  a  shilling's  worth  of  eggs,  or  sevenpence 
for  half  a  pound  of  butter. 

The  little  maid-of-all-work  downstairs  was  subsidized, 
and  ran  up  and  down,  helping  willingly,  in  many  ways. 
Manuella  found  she  liked  her  housekeeping,  but  what 
she  liked  best  of  all  was  mending  Harston's  and  her  own 
clothes — Gerald's  too,  presently.  Her  foreign  education 
served  her  in  good  stead.  She  could  darn  exquisitely, 
sew  on  buttons  that  did  not  come  off,  patch  and  mend  and 
put  in  gussets. 

They  were  not  unhappy  months  when  she  was  occupied 
with  these  things,  making  home  for  them  all.  Each  day 
had  its  duties,  almost  every  hour.  There  was  always  a 
new  pudding  to  learn,  or  a  fresh  disposition  of  the  house- 
hold utensils  to  make ;  her  wants  grew,  but  they  were 
such  simple  wants ;  new  shelves,  or  pots  and  pans,  a 
whisk  or  a  cherry-stoner ;  easily  supplied.  Harston  had 
no  longer  to  seek  his  food  in  a  restaurant  when  he  was 
hungry.  She  was  proud  to  improvize  a  meal  for  him, 
or  for  Gerald  when  he  came  upstairs.  She  kept  material 
handy — eggs  always,  potted  meat,  jams,  all  manner  of 
tinned  things.  And  when  she  acquired  a  small  upright 
refrigerator  in  which  she  could  store  butter,  fish,  or  chops, 
she  seemed  to  have  reached  her  housekeeping  millennium. 

If  only  she  had  never  been  told  she  had  a  voice,  never 
repeated  the  encomiums  on  it  to  Harston ! 

There  came  a  stage  in  the  progress  of  the  opera  when 
its  creator  wanted  active  sympathy,  open  applause,  help 
and  encouragement.  There  was  Harston  at  the  piano, 
Gerald  with  his  violin.  It  was  when  Harston  said : 

"  And  Manuella  will  sing  for  us,"  that  she  began  to 
doubt.  She  knew  herself  untrained,  a  few  months  with 
De  Lausan  could  hardly  be  counted ;  the  music  in  her  had 
been  deadened  and  stifled  by  Harston's.  She  had  not 
practised,  had  forgotten  what  little  she  knew.  .  .  . 
But  no  pleading  nor  nervousness  prevailed  against  his 
insistence. 


1 68  CONCERT   PITCH 

"  Nonsense !  nonsense !  I  will  teach  you,  train  you. 
Begin  ..."  he  struck  a  chord,  then  played  the  whole 
song  through.  It  was  the  song  known  now  as  "  The 
Invocation." 

She  certainly  had  a  voice,  naturally  well  placed,  and 
when  she  got  over  her  first  nervousness,  neither  man 
could  doubt  it.  It  was  unspoiled  by  forcing,  of  wide 
range,  true  as  the  voice  of  a  bird.  Harston's  accom- 
paniment had  a  magnetic  quality;  his  own  voice  was 
that  of  a  bull,  but  when  he  raised  it,  as  he  often  did  in 
teaching,  it  enriched  hers.  Perhaps  he  heard  them  only 
in  unison.  Certainly  he  came  to  think  her  voice  adequate. 
She  was  glad  to  be  of  this  help  to  him ;  she  remembered 
what  he  told  her,  tried  to  express  him,  strove  to  become 
dramatic.  She  worked  at  her  music  vehemently  in 
the  intervals  of  her  housekeeping,  carrying  out  her  vows. 
It  was  all  for  the  service  of  Harston.  She  found  no 
difficulty  in  throwing  herself  into  the  part  of  Boadicea. 
She  felt  the  anguish  of  the  outraged  Queen,  and  all  her 
agony,  practised  self-abandonment  in  declamation,  wished 
that  her  hair  were  of  gold  instead  of  black,  and  began 
to  live  in  the  opera.  All  three  of  them  lived  in  it  as  it 
grew  into  a  thing  of  rare  beauty. 


CHAPTER  XV 

THERE  came  the  great  day  when  the  opera  was 
actually  finished.  To  Harston  himself,  and  to  that 
enthusiastic  young  Boswell,  Gerald  Streatfield,  it  seemed 
that,  with  the  final  chords,  as  they  crashed  from  the 
piano  in  the  exultant  finale,  a  whole  new  and  splendid 
era  of  English  national  music  dawned.  There  was  not  a 
doubt  in  either  of  their  minds  that  the  opera  had  only  to 
be  heard  to  be  accepted,  and  hailed  as  a  masterpiece. 
Their  talk  was  never  out  of  key;  their  minds  moved  as 
one.  The  Wonder  Child  had  justified  the  great  omen  of 
his  birth.  Never  could  he  be  content  to  become  even  a 
superlative  pianist,  to  rival  Steinhault ;  his  dream  of 
destiny  was  always  to  become  a  great  composer.  Now 
he  saw  himself  also  as  his  own  librettist,  the  man  who 
had  done  for  England  what  Wagner  had  done  for  Ger- 
many. Who  that  would  hear  The  Chariot  Queen  could 
doubt  this?  The  whole  heart  and  soul  of  Britain  were 
in  his  work,  all  the  legends  of  the  people,  their  traditions, 
their  inspirations  and  their  songs.  His  confidence  was 
supreme;  there  was  nothing  mundane  or  material  about 
it ;  it  was  of  the  spirit — uplifting,  ennobling,  complete. 

Harston  Migotti  had  written  a  Symphony  when  he  was 
eighteen,  and  without  any  difficulty  it  had  been  produced 
in  Darmstadt  and  had  achieved  a  distinct  success.  His 
"  Wedding  March,"  that  was  to  rival  Mendelssohn's,  and 
the  one  in  Lohengrin,  was  in  the  hands  of  Gerald  Streat- 

169 


170  CONCERT    PITCH 

field's  firm,  accepted  and  only  awaiting  the  right  season 
for  publication.  Difficulty,  failure,  non-appreciation,  were 
unknown  words  in  the  dictionary  of  his  short  life.  For 
two  years  he  had  been  studying,  writing,  composing, 
now  fruition  was  at  hand.  Of  course  it  would  gain  im- 
mediate recognition,  adequate  production.  There  was 
much  to  be  thought  of,  but  he  had  no  doubt  of  the 
triumph  awaiting  him,  no  possible  shadow  of  doubt. 

It  is  true  that  no  artist  is  ever  completely  satisfied  with 
his  work,  and  to  that  rule  Harston  Migotti  was  no  excep- 
tion ;  he  meant  to  touch  and  retouch,  strengthen,  deepen, 
polish.  But  he  was  on  fire  to  hear  its  representation  in 
full  volume,  with  a  great  orchestra,  to  see  the  mise-en- 
scene  as  he  had  projected  it,  the  Roman  legionaries  burn- 
ing the  groves  and  altars  of  the  Druids ;  Boadicea  in  her 
chariot,  her  wild  hair  flowing: 

Phantom  sound  of  blows  descending,  moan  of  enemy  massacred. 
Phantom  wail  of  women  and  children,  multitudinous  agonies. 

And  the  lighter  scenes,  Boadicea's  daughters  with  their 
fierce  Roman  lovers,  all  the  court  of  Suetonius  Paulinus, 
and  the  fine  recitative  of  the  outraged  maidens,  the 
chorus  of  the  Druids : 

Sounds,  not  arms,  shall  win  the  prize, 
Harmony  the  path  to  fame. 

He  wanted  to  see  and  hear  it  all,  and  be  filled  with  the 
whole  sequence  from  overture  to  finale.  Before  the  great 
day  of  completion  Gerald  had  arranged  a  selection  from 
the  music  in  the  first  act  as  a  suite  for  the  piano,  with 
which  his  firm  had  expressed  themselves  charmed.  A 
vital  question  was  whether  to  ask  Clara  Cue  to  sing  the 
song  in  the  second  act  at  her  grand  annual  concert  in 
the  Albert  Hall : 

Fear  not,  isle  of  blowing  woodland,  isle  of  silvery  parapets, 
Though  the  Roman  eagle  shadow  thee,  though  thy  mercenaries 

menace  thee, 
Thou  shalt  wax  and  they  shall  dwindle,  thou  shalt  be  the  mightier 

yet! 

In  the  end,  however,  they  decided  against  this  proposi- 


CONCERT    PITCH  171 

tion,  resolved  that  the  bloom  must  not  be  taken  off  the 
first  production. 

Gerald  was  enthusiastic,  and  Harston  seemed  alight, 
radiant,  no  doubt  or  shadow  crossing  his  faith  in  his  work. 

Manuella's  attitude  towards  her  husband  had  changed. 
If  love  had  not  come  with  service,  belief  had.  When 
Harston  wrote  and  played,  full  of  his  music  as  a  globe 
of  light,  she  was  ready  to  admit  she  was  married  to  a 
young  god,  to  worship  and  to  guard  the  flame  before  the 
altar.  When  the  lamp  burned  low,  and  he  was  her  hus- 
band, more  human  than  God-like,  she  cooked  and  darned 
for  him  dutifully.  She  had  grown  at  peace  with  herself 
through  serving  him. 

On  the  Sunday  before  the  opera  was  finished,  the  end 
actually  in  sight,  Gerald  was  inspired  to  suggest  that  a 
National  theatre  should  be  built  for  it,  that  the  King  and 
Queen  would  desire  to  take  the  lead  in  acknowledging 
such  a  gift  to  them  and  to  their  people.  Stated  in  cold 
print  this  may  well  look  ridiculous.  In  that  panelled 
room  in  Bedford  Square,  where  the  piano  stood,  it  ap- 
peared not  only  feasible,  but  almost  inevitable.  Was  this 
not  the  first  great  English  Opera,  the  precursor  of  others 
to  come?  And  there  was  Bayreuth  to  guide  them. 

"  But  what  have  they  got  that  could  be  made  into  a 
Bayreuth?  Sandringham  is  too  small,  Scotland  too  far 
off.  ..."  Migotti  had  a  stranger's  knowledge  of  the 
country  he  called  his  own. 

From  Manuella  came  the  suggestion  of  Windsor. 

"  Windsor  Forest !  Of  course,  just  the  place — ideal !  " 
Gerald,  fired  by  the  idea,  was  sure  a  theatre  would  be 
built  in  Windsor  Forest  for  the  production  of  The  Chariot 
Queen. 

"  Why  not  go  down  and  find  a  site,  see  what 
could  be  done?  You  are  not  working  any  more  to- 
day?" 

It  was  early  spring,  the  excursion  was  planned  quickly ; 
in  moments  like  this  Gerald  showed  his  abilities. 

"  We  can  catch  a  two-o'clock  train  from  Paddington ; 
we  shall  be  in  Windsor  before  three.  I  know  there  is  an 


172  CONCERT   PITCH 

express  that  only  stops  at  Slough.  It  will  be  daylight 
until  after  six." 

They  actually  caught  the  train.  Harston  was  in 
holiday  spirits,  more  German  than  he  knew  at  the  pros- 
pect of  an  excursion  in  a  forest.  Gerald  was  full  of  the 
theatre,  imagined  the  building,  tier  upon  tier,  and  the 
people  who  would  throng  there. 

"  You  know  this  will  make  an  enormous  difference, 
not  only  to  Windsor,  but  to  Datchet  and  Slough,  and  as 
far  as  Maidenhead.  They  will  have  to  build  new 
hotels.  ..."  Gerald  saw  speculators  buying  land  and 
building  capaciously,  multitudinously ;  he  wished  he  had 
capital  to  invest. 

In  the  third-class  carriage  which  they  had  to  them- 
selves Harston  bawled  a  few  bars  of  the  "  Song  of  the 
Thames  " ;  but  presently  he  would  talk  no  more  of  the 
opera  or  the  theatre ;  he  would  only  speak  enthusiastically 
of  England,  looking  out  of  the  window  and  drawing 
Manuella's  or  Gerald's  attention  to  tree  or  sky,  or  shifting 
panorama  of  the  landscape.  They  passed  mean  suburban 
houses  of  red  brick,  long  roads  where  passing  motors  left 
trailing  clouds  of  dust,  trees  backward  in  budding,  with 
sparse  stems,  and  he  found  it  all  admirable,  national, 
characteristic. 

But  when  they  got  to  the  Forest  everything  was 
different.  The  day,  it  is  true,  was  no  longer  warm,  and 
the  trees  were  hardly  in  bud.  He  found  the  paths  too 
wide  and  ordered,  the  vistas  narrow  and  confined,  and 
a  suitable  site  for  the  theatre  was  difficult  to  imagine. 
But  Gerald's  enthusiasm  carried  them  through,  and 
Harston's  spirits  never  flagged.  He  called  Manuella  his 
liebchen  and  his  sweetheart:  his  energy  was  enormous, 
he  was  untiring  in  walking,  and  he  showed  a  real  sense  of 
topography,  discovering  in  time  that  the  Forest  was  no 
maze,  but  that  the  many  roads  converged  to  a  centre. 
He  found  where  the  Great  Park  encroached  on  the  Forest 
land,  and  the  many  points  from  which  one  saw  the  Castle 
and  the  river.  He  it  was  who  ultimately  discovered  the 
very  place  for  the  theatre,  and  even  before  Gerald 


CONCERT    PITCH  173 

realized  its  advantages,  Harston  began  to  plan  what 
trees  must  come  down  and  what  space  would  have  to  be 
cleared. 

Manuella  plodded  after  them  like  a  German  housewife. 
She  was  unused  to  walking,  soon  tired,  and  at  the  end  of 
the  day  most  desperately  weary,  hardly  able  to  keep  up  her 
dragging  steps.  She  was  a  little  embittered  by  her  fa- 
tigue, slightly  out  of  temper.  She  began  to  see  that  their 
plans  were  only  so  much  futile  talk,  to  know  that  the  King 
and  Queen  would  not  cut  down  their  forest  and  clear  a 
space  for  Harston  and  Gerald  to  build  a  theatre.  Of 
course,  she  believed  in  the  opera  and  in  Harston's  genius ; 
without  such  belief  life  would  have  been  insupportable, 
but  she  could  not  take  this  talk  of  theirs  seriously. 

They  had  tea  at  the  station.  Her  legs  ached  and  her 
back  ached,  her  feet  were  hot  and  blistered;  there  were 
shadows  under  her  eyes,  her  cheeks  were  sallow,  at  a 
word  her  temper  flared.  She  did  not  want  to  pour  out  the 
tea,  cut  bread  and  butter,  or  spread  jam  for  them.  Hars- 
ton had  learnt  to  expect  all  these  things  from  her ;  he  ate 
like  a  German  on  a  holiday,  with  gusto,  abandonment, 
quite  voraciously. 

"  But  go,  go  on !  Cut  more,  cut  thicker  slices."  His 
mouth  was  full  as  he  spoke.  • 

"  Cut  some  yourself."  She  pushed  the  loaf  over  to  him 
before  he  had  half  finished.  "  I  can't  cut  you  any  more, 
I'm  tired." 

He  did  not  understand  at  all. 

"  Oh,  no !  but  that  is  impossible.  I  cannot  cut  bread  and 
butter  for  myself,  nor  spread  the  jam.  And  I  must  have 
another  cup  of  tea — a  large  cup,  strong.  I  have  a  great 
thirst.  ..." 

This  was  the  first  time  there  had  been  anything  like  a 
scene  between  them.  Manuella  was  for  ever  unreal 
with  Harston,  playing  the  part  she  had  assigned  herself. 
Over-fatigue  was  responsible  for  the  childishness  of  her 
behaviour  this  afternoon  at  the  round  marble-topped 
table  in  the  dingy  refreshment-room  of  the  railway  sta- 
tion. She  said  she  wouldn't  cut  any  more  bread,  and 


174  CONCERT    PITCH 

she  wouldn't  pour  out  any  more  tea;  she  was  sick  of 
waiting   upon    him.      Harston    was    astonished,    Gerald 
grieved ;  both  of  them  made  matters  worse  by  sympathy, 
kindness,  too  much  talk. 
"  But  you  are  ill.  ..." 
"  We've  overtired  you !  " 
"  I'm  not  ill,  I'm  quite  well.    I'm  not  tired." 
"  But  you  are  cross !  " 

She  even  cried  presently,  tears  of  rage ;  they  could  not 
understand  her  at  all.  Their  high  spirits  were  damped 
and  destroyed,  the  whole  excursion  spoilt.  On  the  way 
home  in  the  third-class  carriage,  overfull  with  other  ex- 
cursionists, she  lay  back  silent  and  repentant  in  the  cor- 
ner, acutely  conscious  that  both  Harston  and  Gerald  were 
watching  her  uncomprehendingly,  as  if  they  saw  her  for 
the  first  time,  and  did  not  know  how  rightly  to  deal  with 
so  strange  a  phenomenon.  She  was  infuriated  when  they 
asked  her  again  if  she  were  tired.  They  did  not  speak  of 
the  theatre,  they  were  so  engaged  in  wondering  what 
had  come  to  her. 

When  they  got  home  she  made  no  effort  to  prepare 
supper  for  them,  she  went  straight  to  bed,  her  temper 
not  yet  restored.  But  she  was  quite  disgusted  with  her- 
self and  convinced  that  her  stepmother  had  been  right. 
She  had  no  excuse  for  herself,  she  felt  wretched  and 
ashamed,  but  convinced,  nevertheless,  that  all  the  talk 
had  been  ridiculous,  and  the  long  walk  in  search  of  a 
site  merely  waste  of  energy. 

In  a  way,  Gerald  and  Harston,  sitting  over  supper, 
came  to  the  same  conclusion.  They  dismissed  the 
strangeness  of  her  conduct,  Harston  with  a  shrug  and 
Gerald  with  a  sigh. 

'  We  walked  too  far  for  her." 

'  She  could  surely  have  said  so !  " 

'  She  will  be  all  right  in  the  morning." 

'  I  shall  have  to  work  all  the  morning." 

'  You  will  be  finished  by  Wednesday  ?  " 

'  By  Wednesday  my  score  will  be  ready." 

They  discussed  the  writing  out,  the  copying,  then  they 


CONCERT    PITCH  175 

came  back  to  the  question  of  the  theatre.  It  would  be 
a  year,  two  years,  before  a  theatre  could  be  built.  To 
wait  was  of  course  impossible.  The  excursion  had  been 
only  a  holiday.  The  theatre  of  their  dreams  was  for  the 
future,  the  far  distant  future.  Of  course,  they  had 
realized  this  all  the  time ;  there  was  small  need  for  Manu- 
ella  to  point  out  their  folly  to  them.  She  had  not  spared 
them,  but  of  course  they  knew.  The  opera  must  first  be 
produced  at  The  Grand  Capitol.  They  spoke  of  the 
production  at  The  Grand  Capitol  as  they  sat  talking  after 
supper,  talking  long  into  the  night. 

"  I  will  take  the  score  to  him  myself  and  play  certain 
parts  to  him." 

"  You  are  going  to  tell  him  that  you  will  yourself  take 
the  rehearsals,  conduct  the  first  performance !  But  .  .  ." 

Harston  was  in  no  humour  to  listen  to  buts.  And,  after 
all,  Gerald  was  only  an  echo,  never  a  voice.  They  were 
both  very  young,  and  Harston  knew  as  little  about  the 
production  of  opera  in  England  as  he  did  about  women. 
He  thought  everything  was  going  to  be  easy,  quite  plain 
sailing.  For  a  masterpiece  there  is  always  opportunity. 
To-night,  over  that  disordered  supper-table,  which  showed 
the  worse  for  Manuella's  absence,  he  was  as  definite  and 
dogmatic  as  if  he  were  Mascagni,  or  Strauss,  and  could 
dictate  terms. 

"  The  house  will  have  to  be  remodelled.  Reinhardt 
and  Craig  are  all  very  well  in  their  way,  but  I  have 
gone  beyond  them.  All  the  theatre  must  be  part  of 
the  scenery,  so  that  the  atmosphere  is  preserved.  The 
audience  will  be  part  of  the  atmosphere,  assisting  the 
tragedy,  not  merely  spectators.  ..." 

As  he  talked  he  saw  Stonehenge  and  the  Druids,  the 
great  scene  of  the  sacrifice,  the  Court  of  Paulinus, 
Boadicea  crying  alone  in  the  wilderness,  or  valiantly 
leading  her  followers. 

"  Hear,  Icenian,  Catienchlanian,  hear  Coritanian, 
Trinobant! " 

He  heard,  he  saw  them  all.  His  eyes  were  alight.  It 
was  all  in  his  opera.  Like  a  God  he  had  recreated  ancient 


176  CONCERT    PITCH 

Britain  with  music  and  deep  undercurrents  of  spirit- 
sound.  In  the  Overture,  and  in  the  choruses,  this  cradle 
of  a  race,  this  birthplace  of  a  nation,  this  battle-song  and 
prophecy,  this  wailing  and  rejoicing  was  one  homogene- 
ous whole.  It  was  not  natural  for  him  to  turn  aside  from 
such  a  vision  to  think  of  a  scolding  girl,  overtired  per- 
haps, certainly  ill-tempered.  He  was  not  angry  with  her, 
but  she  may  have  dropped  a  little  in  importance.  Per- 
haps already  she  disappointed  him. 

****** 

Harston  Migotti  had  been  in  the  train  of  Steinhault, 
the  great  artist,  whom  crowned  heads  had  united  to 
honour,  to  whom  palaces  had  been  open,  and  who  was 
acclaimed  wherever  he  went.  Perhaps  not  unnaturally, 
he  compared  himself  with  that  triumphant  Steinhault, 
and  to  his  own  advantage.  Steinhault  played  other 
men's  music  superbly,  incomparably.  But  he,  Migotti, 
was  poet  and  composer.  That  Pan  should  play  and 
the  hurrying,  busy  world  of  men  not  stay  to  listen 
was  a  contingency  outside  the  sweep  of  his  soaring 
imagination.  He  lived  in  a  dream-world  that  he  bestrode 
like  a  Colossus,  and,  enveloped  by  a  rarefied  atmosphere 
of  adulation,  the  dazzling  light  of  his  supreme  self- 
confidence  made  him  see  the  actual  world  but  dimly. 
Vested  interests  were  a  sordid  something  of  which  he  had 
never  heard,  an  empty  phrase  for  little  men. 

It  seems  impossible  that  he  should  have  had  no  doubt 
nor  misgiving  lest  he  should  be  denied  a  hearing.  But 
the  impossible  is  true.  With  difficulty  Gerald  persuaded 
him  to  write  to  Madame  Liebius  for  an  introduction 
to  the  impresario  of  the  Opera  House.  The  score  had  to 
be  transcribed,  there  must  needs  be  a  waiting  time. 
Madame  Liebius  replied: 

"  The  end — no,  the  beginning  has  come  at  last ;  then 
the  great,  great  work  is  complete.  Oh !  how  I  long  to 
hear  it,  see  it — our  Wonder  Boy !  Of  course  I  will  write 
to  Brian  O'Neill.  I  am  singing  for  him  this  season.  Who 
will  create  the  part  of  your  Chariot  Queen?  You  must 


CONCERT   PITCH  177 

write   me   everything.      In   two   months    I    will    be    in 
England." 

There  was  more  in  the  letter,  but  that  was  the  gist 
of  her  message.  The  one  that  went  with  the  score  to 
Brian  O'Neill  was  even  more  enthusiastic.  She  spoke  of 
Harston  Migotti's  genius,  and  said  it  was  a  great  priv- 
ilege that  Brian  O'Neill  should  have  the  opportunity  of 
introducing  him  to  the  public  in  England.  She  knew 
exactly  what  to  say. 

After  the  score  and  the  letter  had  been  posted,  they 
waited,  and  waited,  and  waited.  Harston,  the  least 
impatient,  because  there  was  always  something  more  to 
be  done.  For  eight  and  ten  hours  a  day  he  was  at  the 
piano,  or  with  his  head  bent  over  the  score.  Nearly 
three  weeks  passed  before  he  remembered  to  wonder  why 
no  answer  had  come  from  the  Opera  House. 

Then  he  concluded  that  O'Neill  was  not  in  England,  or, 
at  least,  not  in  London.  In  the  end,  Harston  decided 
he  must  go  and  see  him ;  it  would  be  infamous  if  O'Neill 
had  already  put  the  opera  into  rehearsal  without  con- 
sulting the  writer ! 

Manuella  had,  of  course,  recovered  her  temper,  if  not 
her  spirits,  long  before  this.  She  had  even  said  she  was 
sorry ;  and  Harston,  who  by  that  time — it  was  only  the 
next  day — had  forgotten  the  incident,  kissed  her  and 
called  her  "  Schatzchen,"  and  praised  an  omelette  she 
made  for  him.  Naturally,  when  he  was  so  occupied  in 
alterations  and  additions  he  could  not  question,  or  interest 
himself  in,  his  young  wife.  Gerald  noticed  she  was  not 
looking  well,  and  said  feelingly  to  her :  "  Of  course,  this 
is  a  trying  time  for  you  and  me.  He  has  no  anxiety; 
it  is  wonderful  to  see  how  calm  he  is.  Now,  I,  I  can 
hardly  sleep,  and  I  suppose  you,  too,  pass  sleepless 
nights?" 

Harston  went  to  see  Mr.  Brian  O'Neill,  fearing  lest  the 
opera  should  have  been  put  into  rehearsal,  or  even  tried 
with  an  orchestra,  without  his  being  present ! 

He  had  not  written  for  an  appointment,  and  he  was 


178  CONCERT    PITCH 

kept  waiting,  first  in  the  lobby  of  the  theatre,  and  then, 
after  he  had  sent  in  his  card,  in  the  anteroom  of  the  man- 
ager's office.  When  at  last  he  was  asked  to  enter,  O'Neill, 
who  had  interviewed  already  about  fourteen  prima-don- 
nas,  various  chorus  masters,  ballets  divertisseuses,  entre- 
preneurs, and  Heaven  knows  whom  besides,  had  forgotten 
why  he  had  consented  to  see  him.  He  had,  at  the  back  of 
his  mind,  some  association  with  the  name,  but  he  could 
not  for  the  moment  recall  the  circumstance.  The  letter 
from  Madame  Liebius,  the  parcel  that  had  come  with  it, 
the  name  of  Harston  Migotti,  had  all  escaped  him. 

He  was  courteous,  of  course,  in  his  temporary  lapse 
of  memory,  with  that  hurried  perfunctory  courtesy  that 
is  so  very  little  removed  from  indifference.  He  waited 
for  the  man  himself  to  give  him  the  clue.  Possibly  it  was 
about  an  engagement.  He  put  on  his  "  And-what-can-I- 
do-for-you  ?  "  air,  and  leaned  back  in  his  chair. 

This  was  Harston  Migotti's  chance,  had  he  but  under- 
stood and  taken  it.  Here  he  was,  in  the  great  man's  room, 
assured  for  the  moment,  at  least,  of  his  attention.  Hars- 
ton was  a  young  man  with  a  personality,  and  as  we  know, 
of  striking  appearance ;  already  Brian  O'Neill  had  glanced 
at  him  with  interest.  He  had  only  to  accentuate  that 
interest,  establish  it.  Everybody  knows  that  Brian 
O'Neill  is  generous,  expansive,  keen  to  secure  new  talent. 
A  few  words  from  Harston  would  have  been  sufficient, 
a  few  tactful  words  about  the  manager's  services 
to  music,  the  last  successful  season,  the  promise  of  the 
new  one  under  his  management  .  .  .  O'Neill  had  had 
an  extremely  busy  morning,  Migotti's  name  was  unfa- 
miliar to  him,  but  certainly  he  would  have  listened  if  the 
right  methods  had  been  employed. 

"  I  am  Migotti.  Harston  Migotti."  So  abruptly 
Harston  began,  without  a  word  of  recognition  of  his 
hearer's  great  position,  or  his  complaisance  in  receiving 
artists. 

"  To  be  sure  .  .  .  Migotti !  And  what  can  I  do 
for  you,  Mr.  Migotti?  Be  seated ;  be  seated,  please.  I've 
hardly  five  minutes  to  spare.  Let  me  see,  it  was  the 


CONCERT    PITCH  179 

Duchess  of  Landale  .  ,  .  no."  He  was  turning  over 
a  filed  sheet  of  notes.  Who  had  written  to  him  about 
the  man?  Did  he  sing?  What  the  devil  had  he  prom- 
ised to  do  for  him? 

"  You  have  the  score  of  my  opera."  Harston  did  not 
understand  this  indifferent  man.  "  It  is  I  who  have  writ- 
ten The  Chariot  Queen,  the  libretto,  and  the  music." 

"  Oh !  of  course,  I  recollect  quite  well  now.  The  '  First 
English  Opera/  "  He  had  found  the  note.  "  But,  my 
dear  fellow,  don't  you  know  that  there  are  dozens  of 
English  operas  ?  '  An  English  National  Music  .  .  .'  " 
he  was  still  reading.  "  Yes,  yes,  of  course.  Druids,  and 
that  sort  of  thing." 

He  was  quite  pleasant,  if  a  little  patronizing.  He 
remembered  the  pretentiousness  with  which  the  score 
had  been  forwarded  to  him  and  that  he  had  had  no 
time  to  look  at  it.  He  struck  the  bell  on  the  table  sharply. 
He  told  the  secretary  who  answered  it  to  be  quick  and 
find  the  parcel  that  had  come  with  the  letter  from  Mad- 
ame Liebius.  Doubtless  he  meant  to  glance  at  it  then  and 
there,  to  be  kind,  and  even  encouraging,  to  the  young 
composer.  After  all,  to  have  written  and  composed  an 
opera — any  opera,  at  the  age  of  the  young  man  before 
him,  was  very  creditable,  showed  industry,  enterprise. 
He  went  on  talking  whilst  they  waited  for  the  parcel  to 
be  found. 

"  Where  did  you  get  your  musical  education  ?  In 
England  ?  I  don't  seem  to  have  heard  your  name  before. 
Were  you  at  the  Academy,  or  the  Guildhall  ?  You  have 
done  other  work,  of  course  ?  " 

His  tone  was  perfunctory,  perhaps,  but  he  was  cer- 
tainly kindly  and  courteous.  Harston  hardly  yet  realized 
that  the  announcement  of  his  name,  and  the  fact  that  he 
was  the  composer  of  The  Chariot  Queen,  had  failed  of 
effect.  He  had  not  taken  the  seat  indicated  to  him;  he 
stood  with  his  hat  in  his  hand,  and  his  most  uncompromis- 
ing expression.  When  O'Neill  spoke  of  other  English 
operas,  he  could  not  disguise  his  contempt. 

"  But  they  don't  count,  they  don't  count  at  all." 


i8o  CONCERT    PITCH 

O'Neill  looked  at  him  questioningly,  with  a  certain 
surprise  and  stopped  his  questions.  Harston  took  ad- 
vantage of  the  pause. 

"  Mine  is  a  National  Opera,  not  like  any  other.  In 
Italy,  in  France,  and  in  Germany  they  have  a  National 
Music,  but  not  in  England.  ..." 

Then  he  mentioned  the  names  of  two  English  com- 
posers ;  and  tore  their  work  to  pieces  in  a  phrase. 

Brian  O'Neill  actually  reddened;  the  two  composers 
in  question  had  been  his  own  discoveries,  his  own  nov- 
elties of  last  season,  presented  by  him  to  the  limited 
opera-going  public.  Certainly  they  had  been  only  fairly 
well  received,  but  the  young  man  was  impertinent,  pre- 
suming. The  secretary  at  this  moment  brought  the 
mislaid  parcel.  He  took  it  and  untied  the  strings. 
Migotti  saw  that  it  had  not  been  opened ! 

"  You  have  not  looked  at  my  opera !  "  he  exclaimed. 
Of  course,  that  was  the  explanation.  How  could  the 
man  know  the  difference  between  his  opera  and  every 
other  that  had  been  written  if  he  had  not  looked  at  it? 
He  would  have  to  play  it  to  him.  His  eyes  roved  for  a 
piano.  Yes !  there  it  was,  an  Erard  grand  standing 
open.  Brian  O'Neill  saw  the  direction  of  his  eyes.  He 
said  pleasantly,  for  he  had  recovered  his  self-possession 
and  superficial  agreeability : 

"  Do  you  realize  that  I  have  some  dozen  operas  brought 
or  sent  to  me  every  week?  I  am  a  very  busy  man,  Mr. 
Migotti." 

"  But  mine  is  not  an  ordinary  opera !  "  Harston  Migotti 
was  amazed  that  this  had  not  been  understood. 

"  Of  course  not !  " 

And  sotto  voce  he  added :    "  They  never  are  !  " 

He  had  untied  the  string;  he  was  looking  through  the 
overture,  now  humming  a  bar  or  two  under  his  breath. 

But  it  was  not  a  bar  of  The  Chariot  Queen  that  he  was 
humming.  His  mind  was  upon  the  opera  brought  him 
that  morning  by  a  peer,  one  of  the  richest  men  in  Eng- 
land, who  was  prepared  to  put  up  any  amount  of  money 
to  have  it  staged.  Already  he  was  wondering  if  it  were 


CONCERT    PITCH  181 

possible,  if  some  special  professional  skill  could  make  it 
producible.  His  eyes  were  on  Migotti's  MSS.,  but 
his  mind,  that  versatile,  agile  mind  of  his,  had  suddenly 
reverted  elsewhere. 

Migotti  could  not  make  out  what  passage  he  was 
trying  to  materialize ;  he  went  quite  naturally  to  the 
piano,  adjusted  the  stool,  and  sat  down.  When  he  began 
to  play,  O'Neill  was  really  overwhelmed  by  his  temerity. 
He  had  not  been  asked  to  play,  no  permission  had  been 
given.  But  when,  not  content  with  playing,  Harston 
started  to  thunder  out  in  his  impossible  voice : 

"  Hear,  Icenian,  Catienchlanian,  hear  Coritanian, 
Trinobant!" 


O'Neill  became  convinced  that  the  fellow  was  mad, 
actually  stark,  staring  mad !  He  was  a  handsome  fellow, 
and  could  play  the  piano,  but  that  he  was  mad,  the  Great 
Man  of  the  Opera  House,  who  had  given  him  no  permis- 
sion to  play,  and  certainly  none  to  sing,  had  no  doubt. 
"  And  a  damned  nuisance  to  boot.  ..."  was  how  he 
finished  the  sentence  in  his  own  mind.  "  Damn  it,  he's 
bellowing  like  a  bull.  ..." 

How  to  silence  him,  how  to  get  rid  of  him,  was  the 
immediate  question.  He  had  Lord  Swanage's  offer  to 
consider;  Lord  Swanage  was  coming  back  in  the  after- 
noon for  his  answer.  Brian  O'Neill  never  heard  the 
trumpet  effect,  or  the  fanfaronnade  that  introduced  the 
chorus  in  the  second  act,  nor  the  Invocation.  ...  A 
long  time  was  to  elapse  before  he  knew,  in  common  with 
the  whole  world,  the  whole  music-loving  world,  that  he 
was  listening  to  what  is  now  admittedly  the  finest  and 
most  characteristic  aria  heard  on  our  own,  or  any,  stage 
since  Tannhduser.  To  him,  the  piano  and  Migotti's 
dreadful  voice,  and  the  aria,  were  only  obstructions  to  his 
day's  work,  to  the  immediate  work  that  pressed.  He  did 
not  know  how  to  put  a  stop  to  it,  how  to  tell  the  musician 
that  this  was  not  the  wav  to  obtain  consideration  for  his 


1 82  CONCERT    PITCH 

opera.  It  seemed  impossible  to  stop  Migotti  at  the  piano, 
thundering  out  selections  from  the  score. 

Brian  O'Neill  took  the  path  of  least  resistance;  he 
escaped  from  the  room.  When  Migotti  took  his  fingers 
from  the  keys,  and  swung  round  on  the  stool,  in  the 
expectation  of  seeing  the  man  entranced,  overwhelmed, 
ready  to  embrace  him,  and  place  the  house,  the  artists, 
everybody  and  everything  at  his  disposal,  he  was  con- 
fronted by  a  totally  unexpected  figure,  a  dogmatic  young 
man  in  glasses,  who  said: 

"  I  say,  don't  you  know  you  oughtn't  to  make  such  a 
row  here?  We  can  hear  you  on  the  stage.  Don't  you 
know  we  are  at  rehearsal  ?  " 

He  gazed  at  Migotti  through  his  round  glasses,  and 
Migotti  flung  back  his  head  with  its  mane  of  fair  hair 
and  stared  back  at  him.  He  had  almost  forgotten  where 
he  was,  he  had  been  so  absorbed  in  his  beautiful  music. 
Mr.  O'Neill's  secretary  continued  more  mildly,  his  in- 
structions had  been  definite. 

"  Get  rid  of  him  for  me.  Tell  him  I'll  consider  his 
opera;  tell  him  we  are  full  up  for  the  season,  but  I'll 
look  it  over  before  the  next.  Tell  him  any  damn  thing; 
only  get  rid  of  him.  Politely,  if  possible ;  but  ged  rid  of 
him.  He  is  a  protege  of  Liebius,  a  genius,  a  crank.  Oh, 
Lord !  listen  to  him.  ..." 

"But  Mr.  O'Neill  .  .  .  where  is  Mr.  O'Neill?"  ex- 
claimed Harston  from  the  piano-stool.  Now  the  sec- 
retary could  hear  his  own  voice,  and  execute  his  com- 
mission properly.  He  smiled,  he  beamed: 

"  He  told  me  to  offer  you  his  apologies.  He  is  really 
so  overwhelmed  with  work  just  now.  About  your  opera : 
he  told  me  to  tell  you  he  is  going  to  give  it  the  most 
careful  consideration.  Of  course,  for  this  season  you 
know  we  have  made  our  engagements.  ..." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that  your  master  has  not 
even  heard  what  I've  played  him ;  that  the  finest,  the 
most  original  and  astonishing  music  that  has  been  written 
since  Siegfried  has  not  kept  him  here.  .  .  .  ?  "  It  was 
really  astounding,  incredible ;  his  fair  face  flushed. 


CONCERT    PITCH  183 

"  He  will  consider  it,  he  will  certainly  consider  it,"  the 
secretary  had  a  soothing,  almost  cooing  manner — "  but 
not  now,  not  just  now.  In  six  months,  perhaps,  or  in 
twelve.  ..."  He  thought  he  was  obeying  his  instruc- 
tions with  complete  tact.  "  You  may  leave  your  work 
with  him,  he  told  me  to  say  so.  ... " 

He  was  never  more  astonished  in  his  life  than  when 
the  musician,  red  in  the  face,  and  "  like  a  madman," 
so  he  recorded  the  scene,  burst  into  a  fury  of  words,  the 
gist  of  which  was  that  O'Neill  did  not  know  music  when 
he  heard  it,  was  not  capable  of  understanding  anything 
better  than  opera  bouffe  or  musical  comedy,  that  he  was 
not  worthy  to  produce  The  Chariot  Queen,  and  now 
would  never  be  allowed  to  do  so. 

Harston  Migotti  seized  the  parcel  that  still  lay  only 
half-opened  on  the  table;  he  would  have  rushed  away 
without  his  hat,  but  the  secretary  followed  him  to  the 
door  and  tactfully  handed  it  to  him. 

"  I  say,  you  know.  You  must  not  take  things  like 
that.  Mr.  O'Neill  is  awfully  interested.  You  must  tell 
Madame  Liebius  that  he  said  he  was  very  much  obliged 
to  her  for  giving  him  the  opportunity.  ..." 

Migotti  was  flying  down  the  stairs  before  the  mild 
young  man  had  brought  out  half  the  speeches  that  are 
used  on  similar  occasions.  But  he  had  a  certain  sense  of 
satisfaction,  for  he  had  executed  the  essential  part  of  his 
commission,  and  "  got  rid  of  the  fellow." 


CHAPTER  XVI 

FOR   a    few   days   Harston   said   nothing  about   this 
visit  to  either  Manuella  or  Gerald.     He  brooded 
over  it,  and  went  long,  solitary  walks.     Surely  his  opera 
was  beautiful !    He  spent  hours  at  the  piano,  or  over  the 
score,  wondering. 

They  knew  better  than  to  question  him,  although  Gerald 
at  least,  was  overwhelmed  with  curiosity.  It  was  the 
first  rebuff  of  which  the  young  musician  had  ever  been 
conscious.  The  fit  of  fury  in  O'Neill's  room  had  been 
followed  by  a  bewilderment  of  anger,  into  which  doubt 
intruded.  But  he  pondered,  and  re-read  the  music,  and 
played  it,  and  felt  there  was  no  room  for  doubt. 

When,  in  about  a  week's  time,  he  had  reassured  him- 
self, he  told  them  what  had  happened.  Of  course,  Gerald 
found  a  hundred  excuses  and  explanations.  Manuella, 
too,  although  already  she  took  only  a  secondary  place 
in  their  councils,  did  not  think  it  proved  anything  but 
Mr.  O'Neill's  incapacity  for  the  position  he  held. 

"  Considering  that  he  never  looked  at  the  score,  and, 
when  you  played  it,  he  did  not  listen,  it  is  not  a  personal 
matter  at  all,  nothing  to  do  with  the  opera.  You  say 
the  parcel  had  never  been  opened." 

I  played  it  to  him ;  I  played  the  Invocation !  " 

"  But  he  wasn't  in  the  room." 

"  He  was  in  the  room  when  I  began  to  play." 

''  Then,  someone  must  have  called  him  away." 

184 


CONCERT    PITCH  185 

"  But  he  could  have  returned ;  surely  he  could  have 
returned  ?  " 

"  We  don't  know  what  kept  him." 

"  Nothing  should  have  kept  him.  I  continued  to 
play " 

It  was  deplorable,  but  worse,  of  course,  for  Brian 
O'Neill  and  the  Grand  Capitol  audiences,  than  for  Hars- 
ton  Migotti,  who  had  only  to  wait.  .  .  .  But  it  was 
impossible  to  wait. 

"  Let  me  take  it  to  John  Otterstein.  He  has  forgotten 
more  about  music  than  O'Neill  ever  knew,"  Gerald 
pleaded. 

But  Harston  had  lost  something  of  his  supreme  self- 
confidence.  It  was  as  if  he  were  a  child,  and  had  been 
unexpectedly,  undeservedly  struck  and  was  still  bewil- 
dered by  the  blow.  They  had  to  make  him  forget,  to 
prove  to  him  he  had  done  nothing  wrong,  but  had  offered 
a  precious  stone,  brilliant  and  unmatchable.  It  was  not 
his  fault  if  it  had  been  mistaken  for  a  common  pebble. 
At  times,  of  course,  he  assumed  a  different  attitude; 
he  was  not  the  child,  but  the  master,  knowing  it  was  a 
diamond  of  the  finest  water  he  had  found  and  set. 
Nevertheless,  Gerald  had  to  urge  Otterstein  upon  him. 

"  He  has  his  own  theatre,  and  can  do  what  he  likes 
there ;  not  like  O'Neill,  who,  after  all,  acts  for  a  syndicate, 
and  not  for  himself.  Look  what  Otterstein  did  in 
America.  And  he's  got  the  public ;  he's  impressed 
them." 

In  the  end  they  all  became  persuaded  that  the  new 
house  on  the  Embankment,  "  The  Ambassadors,"  was  the 
right  house,  pending  the  building  of  that  ideal  theatre 
out  in  Windsor  Forest,  and  that  John  Otterstein  was  the 
right  man. 

Harston,  although  a  little  less  self-confident,  was  no 
less  obstinate. 

'  This  time  I  will  not  ask  Madame  Liebius  for  an  intro- 
duction. I  shall  write  to  him  myself,  and  I  will  send 
him  the  Overture.  That  is  all  I  will  send  him,  for  it  is 
enough.  It  is  that,  or  the  whole  opera,  and  he,  too, 


1 86  CONCERT    PITCH 

might  say  he  had  no  time,  was  too  busy  to  consider  it. 
For  the  Overture  he  will  have  time." 

That  letter  of  Harston's  was  perhaps  responsible  for 
the  result.  Some  day  it  will  be  in  the  British  Museum, 
John  Otterstein  has  promised  it.  But  when  it  came  to 
him  first  he  laughed — he  only  laughed ! 

"DEAR  SIR, 

"  I  send  you  with  this  the  Overture,  and  the  text, 
of  my  opera  The  Chariot  Queen.  You  will  see  for  your- 
self that  it  is  unlike  anything  that  has  been  done  before. 
But  with  the  rest  of  it  you  will  perhaps  be  more  sur- 
prised. I  wish  it  produced  this  season,  and  with  as  little 
delay  as  possible.  I  will  myself  undertake  the  rehearsals, 
and  conduct  at  the  performances.  The  scenery  will 
necessitate  some  alterations  in  the  construction  of  the 
theatre,  which  can  be  put  in  hand  at  once.  I  should  like 
an  interview  with  you  when  you  have  considered  the 
Overture,  and  then  I  will  tell  you  all  my  plan. 

"  MlGOTTI." 

Gerald  thought  there  should  be  more  in  the  letter  about 
Migotti's  intention  to  found  a  School  of  English  National 
Music.  But  Harston  said  that  when  he  saw  John  Otter- 
stein  it  would  be  time  enough. 

It  certainly  never  entered  either  of  their  heads  that 
the  letter  would  be  looked  upon  as  a  joke,  treated  as  a 
hoax,  handed  round,  and  laughed  at.  Yet  that  is  what 
actually  occurred.  And  the  answer  was  intended  to  be 
witty. 

"  Mr.  Otterstein  is  obliged  to  '  Migotti '  for  his  friendly 
offer  of  rebuilding  '  The  Ambassadors,'  and  producing, 
conducting  and  rehearsing  his  work,  but  suggests  that 
for  opera  bouffe  some  other  house  would  perhaps  be 
more  suitable." 

What  the  reply  meant  none  of  them  could  understand ; 
it  was  completely  incomprehensible.  Opera  bouffe ! 


CONCERT   PITCH  187 

The  Overture  of  The  Chariot  Queen — opera  bouffe! 
What  did  it  mean?  Gerald  was  as  ready  as  ever  with 
explanation. 

"  Did  you  put  your  note  in  the  parcel  with  the  Over- 
ture ?  Of  course  not.  That's  what  has  happened ;  they've 
got  separated.  He  gets  a  lot  of  stuff,  and  it  is  even 
possible  someone  has  hit  upon  the  same  title.  What 
isn't  possible  is  to  call  The  Chariot  Queen  opera  bouffe ! 
It's  absurd  to  get  the  hump  over  it.  ...  " 

But  for  the  moment  nothing  could  be  done  with 
Harston.  He  had  not  even  words  for  argument. 

Manuella  and  Gerald  argued  with  each  other  as  to 
what  was  best  to  do  now,  and  recalled  instances  where 
genius  had  failed  of  instant  recognition.  In  the  end 
Manuella  herself  wrote  to  Mr.  Otterstein,  asking  if  he 
had  received  the  Overture  and  text  of  her  husband's 
opera,  The  Chariot  Queen,  and  enclosing  the  note  about 
the  opera  bouffe,  which  she  said  she  thought  must  be 
meant  for  someone  else. 

When  Mr.  Otterstein  received  these  and  understood 
that  The  Chariot  Queen  letter  was  not  a  hoax,  nor  the 
production  of  a  humorist  who  wished  to  "  draw  "  him,  he 
caused  quite  a  nice,  thoroughly  American  reply  to  be  sent 
to  the  lady.  He  had  not  time  to  look  at  either  music  or 
text,  but  dictating  amiable  letters  was  one  of  his  gifts. 

"  MY  DEAR  MADAM, 

"  As  you  say,  the  letter  enclosed  was  sent  in 
error.  I  was  exceedingly  interested  in  your  husband's 
valuable  and  most  original  work.  I  am  returning  it  to 
you  by  this  mail,  as  it  is  my  misfortune  at  the  moment 
to  have  no  opening  for  it.  With  my  best  wishes,  never- 
theless, for  his  ultimate  success,  of  which  I  am  sure  there 
can  be  no  doubt,  I  remain, 

"  Faithfully  yours, 

"  JOHN  OTTERSTEIN." 

The  letter  was  opened  by  Manuella  in  the  presence  of 
Gerald,  and  was  found  alternately  to  be  encouraging  and 


i88  CONCERT   PITCH 

discouraging.  Manuella  was  for  writing  again  to  find  out 
when  he  would  have  an  opening.  Gerald,  undoing  the 
parcel,  had  his  misgivings  that  it  was  intact  as  it  had 
been  sent. 

It  was  incredible  to  him  that  Harston  Migotti  was  to 
join  the  ranks  of  those  unrecognized  geniuses,  unacted  or 
unsung,  unpublished  or  unpurchased,  of  whom  the  annals 
of  art  and  literature  are  full. 

As  for  Harston,  he  had  fits  of  rage,  when  he  would 
thump  the  piano  and  break  into  wild  diatribes  of  anger 
against  the  music  that  was  produced,  the  people  who 
produced  it,  the  critics  who  praised  it.  But,  as  time  went 
on,  these  wild  fits  of  rage  were  interspersed  with  attacks 
of  profound  and,  to  those  two  who  watched  him,  tor- 
turing depression,  in  which  they  could  do  little  or  nothing 
to  help  him.  He  did  not  lose  faith  in  himself  or  The 
Chariot  Queen,  but  he  lost  faith,  or  seemed  to  be  on  the 
brink  of  losing  faith,  in  humanity,  in  justice.  During 
one  whole  week  he  would  neither  play  nor  compose,  and 
the  piano  was  kept  closed.  He  took  long  solitary  walks, 
absenting  himself  from  them  for  intolerably  anxious 
hours.  His  health  seemed  to  fail,  yet  he  complained  of 
nothing ;  indeed,  he  hardly  talked  at  all.  But  he  grew 
thin,  and  his  eyes,  under  the  pent  brows,  seemed  to  have 
sunk  back  into  his  head ;  his  cheeks  were  hollow.  It  was 
the  first  time  disappointment  had  come  near  him,  or  dis- 
illusionment. The  "  I  am  Migotti  "  attitude  had  buoyed 
all  his  youth.  His  intellect  was  so  acute,  his  spirit  so 
proud,  that  his  position  was  now  intolerable.  He  saw  a 
new  Migotti,  one  that  had  failed — failed  of  a  hearing. 
His  rages  were  like  demons  that  desecrated  his  soul,  and 
his  soul  was  seared  and  grew  unfit  for  song. 

The  two  who  watched  him  took  constant  counsel.  To 
their  credit  it  may  be  recorded  that  they  never  wavered 
in  their  belief  in  him. 

The  tenderness  Manuella  discovered  in  her  heart  to- 
wards her  husband  at  this  period  was  very  like  love,  and 
might  have  grown  into  love.  She,  too,  had  known  dis- 
appointment, disillusionment;  her  sympathy  flowed  to 


CONCERT    PITCH  189 

him.  If  it  took  the  form  of  preparing  dishes  that  he 
rarely  ate,  and  never  noticed,  of  redoubling  her  domestic 
cares  and  solicitudes  for  him,  this  was  because  she  could 
think  of  nothing  better. 

Out  of  the  misery  of  those  disordered  days  was  born  a 
question.  Gerald  asked  her  one  day  when  they  were  as 
usual  alone,  Migotti  ever  more  restless,  wandering  some- 
where with  his  tortured  spirit :  "  Would  not  your  father 
help?" 

He  put  it  with  some  hesitation,  knowing,  of  course, 
that  Manuella  had  married  without  her  father's  consent. 
It  had  always  been  tacitly  understood  that  she  would 
seek  forgiveness  when  the  success  of  the  opera  justified 
her  faith;  understood,  that  is  to  say,  by  Gerald  and 
Harston  himself.  Manuella  had  no  illusions. 

The  papers  were  full  of  Sir  Hubert  Wagner  when  Ger- 
ald asked  the  question.  The  illustrated  weeklies  had  his 
photograph  and  that  of  Lcetitia.  Sir  Hubert,  not  com- 
pletely recovered  from  his  recent  illness,  was  propitiating 
the  Deity  by  a  huge  gift  towards  the  establishment  of 
an  endowed  Protestant  Church  in  Johannesburg.  He  was 
going  out  himself  to  assist  in  laying  the  first  stone  of  a 
great  cathedral. 

"  He  has  given  two  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  pounds 
towards  an  endowment,  and  he  is  going  to  build  six 
churches.  Wouldn't  he  do  something  for  a  National 
Opera  House?  He  would  get  just  as  much,  or  more, 
kudos  out  of  it.  ... " 

"  I  have  never  heard  one  word  from  them  since  my 
marriage ;  I  believe  he  has  forgotten  my  existence. 
There  is  not  an  earthly  chance  of  their  doing  anything  to 
help  me  or  him,  and  I  wouldn't  ask  them.  You  don't 
know  my  stepmother.  I  want  her  to  think  I  am  quite 
happy ;  she  will  hate  that." 

"  But  we  can't  either  of  us  be  happy  when  he  is  like 
this." 

Naturally  Gerald  Streatfield  could  never  think  of  any 
other  reason  why  Manuella  should  not  be  completely 
happy.  He  pressed  the  question,  but  she  refused  em- 


190  CONCERT    PITCH 

phatically  to  write  the  appeal  that  could  only  bring 
humiliation.  Yet  the  opera  must  be  heard ;  of  that  they 
were  both  agreed.  It  was  impossible  to  speak  to  Harston, 
and  his  absences  were  getting  more  prolonged.  Once  he 
was  away  two  days  and  a  night,  and  when  he  returned, 
it  was  obvious  he  had  been  all  that  time  without  food  or 
sleep.  The  idea  of  suicide  was  hanging  about  the  out- 
skirts of  their  mind,  waiting  for  entrance.  There  were 
times  when  they  could  scarcely  speak  of  him  to  each 
other,  the  alteration  in  him  was  so  dreadful.  He  seemed 
to  shrink  from  them,  from  their  sympathetic  eyes;  it 
was  obvious  he  could  not  bear  sympathy.  His  sensitive- 
ness was  so  inflamed  that  even  their  presence  in  the  room 
hurt.  He  to  be  pitied !  He  to  need  sympathy !  Migotti ! 
The  mood  might  have  passed,  it  was  too  painful,  perhaps 
too  unreasonable,  to  have  lasted. 

"  If  only  I  had  money  of  my  own  I  would  take  a  theatre 
and  mount  the  opera.  I  know  it  has  only  to  be  heard. 
It  is  killing  him  to  think  his  music  must  lie  dead,  inar- 
ticulate. I  know  how  he  feels,  for  he  told  me.  Like  a 
father  with  a  child,  lovely,  exquisite,  but  blind  and  deaf 
and  dumb.  That  is  exactly  how  he  feels.  I  have  written 
down  his  own  words.  ..." 

"  We  must  do  something." 

Later  on  that  evening,  when  Hartson  was  in  the 
room,  but  sitting  apart  from  them,  silent,  Gerald  said  it 
again : 

"If  only  I  had  money  of  my  own  !  " 

Harston  was  apparently  not  listening,  but  to  their 
surprise  he  said  irritably : 

"  What  use  would  it  be  if  you  had  all  the  money  in  the 
world?  You  could  not  make  them  produce  The  Chariot 
Queen." 

"  I  would  take  a  theatre  and  produce  it  myself,"  Gerald 
answered  boldly. 

"  But  why  not  ?    Why  not  ?  " 

Harston  sprang  excitedly  to  his  feet. 

"  Because  I  haven't  the  money.    I  only  wish  I  had." 

"  But  /  have,  /  have.     Is  it,  then,  only  a  question  of 


CONCERT    PITCH  191 

money?  But  why  did  not  you,  why  did  not  you  or 
Manuella  say  so  before  ?  " 

He  was  all  excitement  and  rapid  interrogation.  There 
was  question  and  quick  answer,  Gerald  taking  fire  from 
him. 

None  of  the  three  of  them  was  a  practical  person, 
although  Manuella  had  learnt  to  keep  house.  The  scheme 
seemed  to  come  to  life  fully  grown.  Why  should  not 
Harston  Migotti  produce  his  own  opera  in  his  own  way — 
take  a  theatre  and  reconstruct  it,  engage  his  artists,  his 
orchestra,  and  be  his  own  conductor  and  manager?  Be- 
fore they  realized  to  what  they  were  committed,  it  had 
become  not  only  possible  but  inevitable.  It  is  what  they 
ought  to  have  done  from  the  first.  Migotti  himself  would 
make  his  own  reputation,  be  dependent  on  no  man's 
favour.  He  swung  back  to  an  almost  incredible  elation, 
and  would  neither  hear  of  difficulties  nor  admit  the  word 
doubt.  Once  again  he  became  imperiously  confident. 

It  appeared  that  the  income  upon  which  Manuella  and 
her  husband  lived  was  derived  from  a  capital  of  between 
five  and  six  thousand  pounds.  The  sum  had  been  in- 
vested to  provide  for  his  education,  but  when  he  came  of 
age  a  lawyer  had  written  to  him  that  now  the  capital  was 
his  own.  There  had  been  an  interview  when  papers  of 
release  were  signed.  The  lawyer  had  spoken  of  the  satis- 
factory investments,  and  advised  that  if  Mr.  Migotti  had 
no  immediate  need  of  the  money  that  they  should  be 
left  undisturbed.  He  had  had  no  use  for  the  money  then, 
but  now !  It  became  wonderful  all  at  once,  all  their 
lives  became  wonderful,  for  Harston  was  himself  again 
and  Gerald  his  ecstatic  henchman.  Of  course  he  would 
himself  produce  his  opera,  then  they  would  see  what  they 
would  see.  ...  It  was  really  a  mad  scheme  and  carried 
out  on  a  mad  scale. 

The  investments  were  all  sold  out ;  that  was,  of  course, 
the  first  thing  to  do. 

Manuella,  to  whom  it  did  occur  that  they  had  no  means 
of  livelihood  if  the  enterprise  failed,  could  not  suggest 
such  a  thought  to  Harston  in  his  present  mood.  She 


i92  CONCERT   PITCH 

ventured  a  word  to  Gerald,  but  Gerald  asked  her  in 
astonishment  how  could  the  enterprise  fail?  Was  it 
possible  that  the  greatest  musical  work  of  the  day,  the 
first  wholly  English  opera,  written  and  composed  by  a 
tone-poet,  greater  than  Richard  Wagner,  who  would 
conduct  all  the  rehearsals,  arrange  all  the  scenery,  engage 
all  the  artists,  fail  of  a  great,  of  a  commanding  success? 
Besides,  as  Gerald  pointed  out  enthusiastically,  Harston 
was  not  one  to  care  for  luxury ;  he  had  slept  as  well  on 
his  old  dust-bed  as  he  did  now  on  the  new  spring  mat- 
tress, eaten  at  restaurants,  and  worn  old  clothes.  .  .  . 
Manuella  flushing,  but  keeping  silence  in  her  growing 
self-discipline,  realized  how  little  she  had  done  for  him. 
Certainly,  now  she  would  not  stand  in  his  way. 

In  these  first  days  after  the  great  decision,  there  seemed 
no  drawbacks  to  face,  no  obstacles  to  overcome.  None  of 
the  difficulties  of  the  enterprise  appeared  at  once.  The 
investments  realized  six  thousand  pounds ;  with  that 
it  was  easy  to  take  a  theatre.  Once  the  Palestrina  was 
secured,  paragraphs  began  to  appear ;  soon  Harston  was 
overwhelmed  with  offers  of  help,  offers  that  in  the  end 
showed  that  everybody  wished  to  help  themselves  to  a 
share  of  the  six  thousand  pounds.  All  these  volunteer 
assistants  were  agreed  in  acknowledging  Harston  Migot- 
ti's  genius  and  admiring  his  opera,  even  before  hearing  it. 

The  ease  with  which  Harston  Migotti  was  allowed  to 
spend  his  six  thousand  pounds  was  only  exceeded  by  the 
difficulty  he  found  in  getting  value  for  it.  Once  the 
theatre  was  taken,  all  the  careful  estimates  he  and  Gerald 
had  made  went  by  the  board.  Everyone  realized  they 
were  dealing  with  amateurs,  and  extras  mounted  accord- 
ingly. The  amount  allowed  for  rent  and  lighting,  dresses 
and  scenery,  proved  elastic,  and  the  never-ending  re- 
hearsals had  all  to  be  paid  for.  All  the  incredible  diffi- 
culties were  doubled  and  redoubled  by  the  English 
libretto. 

Singers  of  all  nations  were  engaged,  tried  and  dis- 
carded, and  had  to  be  compensated.  Paliset  and  Callot 
returned  their  parts  after  having  accepted  them;  they 


CONCERT   PITCH  193 

could  neither  learn  their  words  nor  sing  the  music. 
Havelock  Green  and  Trestle  were  unknown,  and  merited 
their  obscurity,  but  before  they  were  engaged  so  many 
people  had  been  approached  that  the  mere  list  of 
their  names  reads  like  a  Who's  Who  of  the  operatic 
stage. 

Harston  Migotti  set  himself  the  task  of  giving  an 
adequate  representation  of  a  scheme  that  in  its  first 
intention  was  to  have  outrivalled  anything  as  yet  seen 
outside  Bayreuth,  with  a  complete  ignorance  of  the  task 
confronting  him.  The  production  of  grand  opera  is  an 
enterprise  so  little  like  any  other,  that  a  lifetime  is 
necessary  as  an  education  for  its  accomplishment. 

Before  he  started  he  was  beaten  by  the  unforeseen. 
But,  then,  he  foresaw  nothing;  neither  the  unfitness  of 
the  acoustics  of  the  house  for  the  large  orchestra,  and 
the  space  needed,  nor  the  impossibility  of  finding  English 
singers.  The  inevitable  had  to  happen.  This,  too,  is 
an  old  story  now,  but  the  result  could  never  have  been 
in  doubt. 

The  climax  came  when,  less  than  a  week  before  the 
first  night,  Madame  Stella  Lely  developed  an  operatic 
sore  throat,  and  threw  up  the  title  role.  It  was  too  late  to 
find  a  prima-donna.  O'Neill  and  John  Otterstein  would 
release  no  one  from  her  contract.  Grand  opera  voices 
were  not  to  be  found  on  concert  platforms,  in  musical 
comedy  companies,  in  schools  of  music.  Or,  if  they  were 
to  be  found,  there  was  no  time  to  look  for  them.  Manu- 
ella,  at  least,  knew  every  note  of  the  music,  and  the  com- 
poser's intention.  It  was,  of  course,  a  counsel  of  despair, 
but  just  one  week  before  the  first  night  Manuella  was  told 
that  the  only  way  to  help  her  husband,  to  save  the  opera, 
was  for  her  to  create  the  part  of  "  Boadicea."  Once  she 
had  dreamed  of  becoming  a  great  singer ;  now  she  knew 
her  inadequacy  and  pleaded,  how  she  pleaded !  But  what 
was  to  be  done? 

"  You  have  sung  it  over  and  over  again,"  Gerald 
argued  when  he  was  called  into  council.  "  For  God's 
sake  don't  make  objections.  Just  do  the  best  you  can.  I 


i94  CONCERT    PITCH 

don't  know  what  will  happen  if  you  fail  us.  We  have 
tried  everybody." 

Gerald  was  distracted;  nothing  but  Harston's  indom- 
itable belief  in  himself  and  the  opera  could  have  carried 
them  through  to  a  performance. 

"  It  will  not  stand  or  fall  by  the  title  role,"  he  told  his 
wife  consolingly.  "  It  is  not  you,  but  my  music,  they 
will  come  to  hear." 

"  Of  course  I  will  do  the  best  I  can,"  she  promised 
Harston. 

''  I  shall  spoil  the  opera,  you  know  it  as  well  as  I,"  she 
told  Gerald. 

"  Nothing  can  spoil  the  opera.  As  for  this  produc- 
tion. ..." 

But  he  would  not  admit  that  he  knew  nothing  but 
fiasco  was  before  them. 

She  rehearsed  with  and  without  the  orchestra,  daily, 
hourly,  all  that  short  week ;  took  hasty  lessons  in  stage 
deportment  and  diction,  threw  herself  into  the  part  with 
a  most  passionate  abandonment.  She  had  a  beautiful 
voice  and  a  fine  ear,  and  was  not  without  dramatic  talent. 
But  not  all  the  intensity  of  her  desire  and  her  Sisyphian 
labours  could  disguise  the  fact  that  the  task  she  undertook 
was  beyond  her.  Perhaps  she  would  have  acquitted  her- 
self better  if  Harston  had  been  able  to  conceal  this  from 
her.  But  all  he  said  was  that  she  was  not  worse  than 
many  of  the  others,  and  that,  however  it  was  sung,  the 
Press  and  public,  Mr.  O'Neill  and  Otterstein  would  know 
how  fine  the  music  was,  how  original  and  characteristic. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

THE  last  week  passed  with  incredible  swiftness. 
Disputes,  recriminations,  exhausting,  overwhelming 
work,  rilled  its  difficult  hours.  Manuella  was  little  less 
capable  at  the  end  than  she  had  been  at  the  beginning, 
although  she  had  had  much  help  from  kind  women  and 
men  in  the  new  profession  she  was  adventuring. 

The  Chariot  Queen  was  being  produced  by  Harston 
Migotti  at  his  own  theatre,  under  his  own  baton,  but  with 
a  travesty  of  all  his  ideas  and  projects  in  regard  to 
scenery  and  singers. 

He  had  reduced  and  further  reduced  his  ambitions, 
narrowed  down  his  ideas  that  still  remained  bigger  than 
anyone  else's,  accepted,  almost  without  complaint,  the 
abandonment  of  first  one  and  then  another  of  his  effects. 
The  whole  thing  was  so  different  from  the  dimensions 
of  his  intention,  so  belittled  and  shorn,  that  the  tragedy 
of  the  first  night  hardly  affected  him. 

The  Chariot  Queen  is  now  part  of  our  national  musical 
wealth,  and  acknowledged  to  be  all,  and  more  than,  the 
young  composer  claimed  for  it.  In  it  we  see  the  birth  of 
a  nation,  hear  the  break  of  the  waves  against  our  shores, 
the  coming  of  galleys,  the  murmur  of  stream  and  wood- 
land, the  tramplings  and  battling  of  armies,  and  always 
in  palpitating  throbs  the  awakening  heart  of  a  people. 

The  libretto  has  an  epic  nobility,  the  music  is  vital, 
with  the  universal  appeal  of  enduring  art;  we  all  know 

195 


196  CONCERT    PITCH 

this  now.  But  the  conception  was  on  too  great  a  scale, 
and  all  the  execution  fell  below  it.  The  period  of  the 
story  was  too  remote  for  general  sympathy,  the  love- 
interest  rude  and  primitive,  the  wild  scenery  almost  re- 
pellent in  its  ruggedness.  On  the  first  night  of  the  pro- 
duction in  London,  on  the  stage  of  the  Palestrina,  under 
amateur  management,  with  the  wife  of  the  composer 
in  the  title  role,  the  opera  had  no  chance  at  all  of  a  fair 
judgment.  The  taint  of  amateurism  was  over  every- 
thing; it  is  cruel  and  unnecessary  to  go  into  detail. 
Uninstructed  or  inefficient  workmen  manoeuvred  the 
scenery ;  the  waves  were  canvas  on  the  wood  that  rocked 
them,  the  Reinhardt  lighting,  as  by  this  time  it  had  come 
to  be  called,  was  another  name  for  the  gloom  on  the  stage 
that  spread  quickly  to  the  coughing  restless  house.  The 
action  was  obscured  by  delays ;  the  orchestra  was  con- 
founded and  the  choruses  confused  by  the  stage  car- 
penters. Manuella's  long  hair  was  black,  and  though  she 
was  in  great  beauty,  and  rose  at  times  to  the  occasion, 
she  was  never  Boadicea,  and  the  rage  of  prophecy  was 
only  in  her  flushed  cheeks  and  glorious  anguished  eyes ; 
it  was  never  in  her  inadequate  voice  and  delivery.  Her 
performance  would  have  damned  any  opera. 

The  greater  part  of  the  audience  left  before  the  end  of 
the  second  act.  Those  that  remained  made  up  for  the 
discourtesy  of  the  others  by  exercising  their  sense  of 
humour.  Many  funny  things  were  said  in  the  stalls,  and 
some  from  the  gallery  were  shouted  to  the  stage. 

Fiasco ;  hopeless,  unmistakable,  incontrovertible,  was 
the  verdict  of  the  final  stragglers  in  the  vestibule ;  it 
was  patent  to  the  shrugging  critics.  The  sense  of  it 
had  chilled  the  final  numbers,  and  taken  the  heart  out 
of  the  singers.  Manuella's  last  song  was  received  with 
cat-calls.  At  the  end  there  was  hissing.  The  orchestra 
stood  to  their  guns  like  men,  and  the  grand  finale  under 
the  baton  of  the  young  composer  swelled  to  its  over- 
whelming magnificence.  He  turned  to  face  the  house, 
baton  still  in  hand,  that  fine  head  of  his  erect,  his 
cheeks  flushed.  He  would  have  spoken,  but  they  drowned 


CONCERT   PITCH  197 

him  with  hisses  and  gallery  wit,  and  so  continued  until 
the  lights  were  lowered. 

The  notices  in  the  morning  papers  proved  that  the 
Press — there  is  no  use  disguising  it — failed  utterly  in 
realizing  what  they  had  seen  and  heard.  The  best  known 
of  our  critics  contented  himself  by  writing  that  the  very 
greatness  of  the  conception  was  an  argument  against  its 
execution.  Having  delivered  himself  of  this  epigram,  he 
wrote  his  article  up  to  it,  and,  having  mislaid  the  libretto 
and  forgotten  what  it  was  that  pleased  him  in  the  music, 
he  generalized  about  the  growing  tendency  to  patriotism 
on  the  stage,  and  wound  up  a  really  admirable  essay 
with  an  allusion  to  Drake  and  An  Englishman's  Home. 

The  gentleman  who  wrote  for  The  Thunderer,  having 
left  before  the  second  act,  dismissed  the  whole  entertain- 
ment as  "  obviously  the  work  of  a  rich  and  ambitious 
amateur  who  has  much  to  learn  but  more  to  forget." 
"  Everything  that  is  not  reminiscent  is  forcibly  feeble. 
The  beautiful  unknown  prima-donna  was  more  like  a 
schoolgirl  shouting  defiance  at  her  governess  than 
Boadicea  rebuking  the  Romans." 

Others  fashioned  their  phrases  merely  to  entertain ; 
the  following  was  characteristic  of  these  efforts : 

"  The  new  and  youthful  aspirant  to  musical  honours 
breaks  into  the  ring — the  close  opera  ring — on  gaily 
caparisoned  steed,  his  visor  down,  tilting  with  his  lance — 
or  baton.  A  very  noble  knight  in  sooth,  and  one  to  whom 
we  owe  a  certain  amount  of  gratitude  for  having  intro- 
duced us  to  a  new  Queen  of  Beauty,  without  a  voice, 
however,  or,  we  should  say,  any  experience  of  the  stage. 
He  throws  down  the  gage  to  the  recognized  masters  of 
harmony,  but  that,  too,  is  a  mere  detail.  He  has  certainly 
added  to  the  gaiety  of  Nations.  The  shouts  of  laughter 
or  derision.  ..." 

A  different  note  was  struck  in  the  columns  of  The 
Daily  Satirist: 

"  Until  last  night  the  name  of  Harston  Migotti  was 
unknown.  It  will  be  interesting,  although  perhaps  not 
difficult,  to  find  the  motive  actuating  the  anonymity  of 


198  CONCERT    PITCH 

the  gentleman  who  has  taken  a  theatre,  written  a  poem 
(sic),  composed  music,  mounted  scenery,  and  called 
his  entertainment  '  Grand  Opera ! '  We  were  told 
last  night  that  the  whole  production  was  merely  a 
vehicle,  a  very  cumbrous  and  ridiculous  equipage,  for 
foisting  upon  the  public  a  very  beautiful  young  woman 
who  has  every  qualification  for  the  stage  except  that  she 
can  neither  sing  nor  act.  If  this  is  the  case,  there  is 
something  to  be  said  in  favour  of  a  new  form  of  philan- 
thropy. It  is  more  original  than  endowing  public  libra- 
ries, for  a  greater  number  of  people  have  been  given 
employment.  ..." 

The  remainder  of  the  article  consisted  of  a  well-written 
essay  on  amateurism  in  art. 

The  above  are  fair  specimens  from  the  great  dailies. 
No  one  took  the  opera  seriously,  except  a  newcomer  to 
journalism  on  the  staff  of  the  Evening  Intelligence,  who 
wrote  that  it  was  the  noblest  music  that  had  been  heard 
in  England  for  many  a  long  year,  and  for  that  reason 
would  probably  have  to  wait  half  a  century  for  recogni- 
tion. He  went  on  to  say  that  he  understood  Mr.  Migotti 
claimed  to  be  an  Englishman,  and  aimed  at  producing 
an  English  National  Music.  But  he  must  "  find  a  better* 
exponent  than  the  beautiful  young  girl  who  made  such  a 
deplorable  attempt  last  night  in  the  part  of  Boadicea." 

Nearly  all  the  papers  spoke  of  the  beauty  of  the  young 
and  unknown  prima-donna.  Manuella  found  herself 
insulted  by  these  notices,  bedewed  them  with  angry  and 
indignant  tears. 

She  had  not  wanted  to  sing,  or  to  act,  knowing  herself 
incapable  of  either.  They  had  made  her  do  it,  and 
she  had  wrecked  everything.  She  was  not  sorry,  she 
was  angry,  furious.  But  she  was  also  wretched.  She 
was  not,  and  never  would  be  in  any  sense  of  the  word,  a 
"  public  woman,"  having  the  instincts  neither  of  the 
actress  nor  of  the  singer,  aspiring  neither  to  fame  nor 
notoriety.  She  had  sung  because  there  was  no  one  else, 
because  Gerald  urged  it.  She  could  see  that  Harston 
resented  her  failure.  He  would  scarcely  look  at  her  when 


CONCERT   PITCH  199 

they  went  home.  And  the  next  morning  was  worse.  On 
the  second  night  there  were  not  eighty  people  in  the 
house.  The  overture  was  applauded,  and  so  were  several 
of  the  choruses.  But  Manuella  was  almost  without  a 
voice,  and  let  down  every  scene  in  which  she  appeared. 

"  If  we  can  only  hold  on,"  Gerald  said  hopefully.  That 
seemed  the  entire  question  with  him.  But  all  that 
Manuella  cared  about  was  that  she  should  be  released 
from  her  hateful  and  intolerable  task.  She  loved  justice 
passionately,  and  Harston  was  being  unjust  to  her ;  seem- 
ing to  confound  her  with  his  critics,  to  look  upon 
her  as  the  principal  factor  in  his  great  disappointment. 
She  tried  to  argue  it  with  him,  but  he  was  beyond 
argument. 

They  were  not  able  to  "  hold  on."  At  the  end  of 
the  week  it  became  obvious  to  everyone  that  they  must 
close  the  theatre.  All  the  hastily-engaged  incapables 
— chorus-master,  stage-manager,  acting  manager,  Press 
agents,  and  the  rest  of  them,  were  clamorous  to  prove 
that  they  were  not  responsible  for  the  failure,  and  to 
put  the  blame  on  some  one  else.  To  apportion  the  blame 
seemed  the  only  objective,  and  the  prima-donna  was  the 
natural  scapegoat. 

But  it  was  only  Harston's  attitude  and  the  injustice 
of  it  that  angered  her.  She  had  not  wanted  to  sing. 

But  with  all  her  anger,  she  could  not  withhold  first 
her  sympathy  for  him,  and  then  her  admiration.  His 
whole  life  had  centred  on  the  opera;  for  two  years  it 
had  never  been  out  of  his  mind,  and  he  had  worked  in- 
cessantly. Now  it  was  damned  by  Press  and  public,  and 
he  himself  was  flouted,  contemptuously  dismissed  in  a 
paragraph,  treated  as  of  no  account.  It  did  not  alter  his 
attitude  nor  shake  his  confidence.  He  was  as  certain  of 
himself  to-day  as  he  was  yesterday. 

"  They  will  know  some  day,"  he  said,  and  shrugged  his 
shoulders.  "  Notwithstanding  what  they  say,  it  is  the 
great  English  opera." 

The  week  after  the  theatre  was  compulsorily  closed 
he  seemed  to  become  calm — calm  all  at  once — and  that 


200  CONCERT   PITCH 

light  in  his  eyes  shone  more  brightly  than  ever.  Already 
he  was  at  work  again.  Only  Manuella  he  could  not 
forgive.  At  least,  that  is  how  it  appeared  to  her.  Once 
when  he  came  in  and  found  her  at  the  piano  he  put 
his  hands  to  his  ears. 

"  Oh !  don't  sing,"  he  said,  "  for  God's  sake  don't  sing. 
Cook ;  it  is  far  better.  Make  omelettes,  then  if  you  break 
eggs  no  harm  is  done." 

She  was  his  wife,  of  course,  but  he  could  not  get  over 
the  way  she  had  sung  his  music.  He  could  not  listen  to 
her  any  more ;  she  must  never  sing  again ;  he  closed  his 
ears  to  her  voice  that  had  served  him  so  ill. 

She  was  so  altered  and  disciplined  that  she  did  not  even 
cry  out  at  the  cruelty  of  it ;  nor  reproach  him  that  he  had 
forced  her  to  make  the  attempt. 

It  was  comparatively  easy  to  close  the  theatre,  and 
dismiss  the  company ;  the  six  thousand  pounds  had  been 
lost.  By  various  strokes  of  luck  they  even  managed  to 
emerge  solvent.  The  lessor  took  back  the  theatre;  the 
principal  artists  found  engagements  and  cancelled  their 
contracts.  There  was  real  sympathy  and  goodwill  shown 
by  the  world  behind  the  scenes.  Every  musician  knew 
what  neither  Press  nor  public  had  discovered.  As  for  the 
women  and  girls,  to  the  last  super,  they  proclaimed  them- 
selves in  love  with  the  composer. 

After  the  theatre  was  closed,  and  all  the  business  con- 
nected with  it  at  an  end,  the  future  had  to  be  faced. 
Gerald  Streatfield  had  been  useful,  invaluable,  sparing 
Harston  all  possible  detail.  But  he  could  not  spare  him 
the  knowledge  that  out  of  six  thousand  pounds  there  was 
less  than  forty  pounds  left,  and  there  was  nothing  coming 
in  to  replace  the  everything  that  had  gone  out. 

Harston  took  the  news  characteristically.  The  theatre 
had  been  closed  a  month  before  the  accounts  were  all  in 
and  the  completeness  of  the  disaster  was  disclosed.  It 
seemed  as  if  he  had  forgotten  all  the  circumstances,  or 
excluded  them  from  his  mind. 

"  It  was  the  singers,  principally  the  singers,"  he  said, 
as  if  the  financial  aspect  did  not  exist,  and  Gerald's 


CONCERT   PITCH  201 

announcement  that  he  was  ruined  was  of  no  account. 
"  I  know  now.  I  wrote  my  libretto  in  English,  that  is 
the  reason,  and  in  English  there  was  no  artist  to  sing  it. 
In  my  new  libretto  I  am  now  writing " 

"  You  are  really  writing  again — have  started  another 
libretto  ?  By  Jove !  " 

"  But  why  not  ?  "  He  was  quite  calm.  "  Why  not  ?  " 
He  shrugged  his  shoulders  at  their  evident  surprise,  but 
he  obviously  enjoyed  it.  "  Did  you  think  that  was  the 
end?  The  Chariot  Queen  the  end?  Why,  great  God! 
it  is  only  the  beginning !  " 

To  both  Gerald  Streatfield,  filled  with  mundane  things, 
and  to  Manuella,  hurt  and  angry  with  him,  but  not  unfair, 
it  was  wonderful  that  he  ignored  all  that  had  happened, 
and  was  at  work  again  on  a  new  opera. 

"  This  time  I  shall  write  my  libretto  in  Italian.  Italian, 
English,  German,  they  are  all  my  native  tongues,  but 
my  true  inspiration  is  English.  I  am  writing  of  Queen 
Cartismandua,  the  great  queen  who  gave  her  enemy  to 
Rome." 

He  refused  to  talk  of  what  was  going  to  happen  now 
no  money  was  coming  in ;  all  he  would  discuss  was  the 
new  opera. 

"  Manuella  must  manage,"  he  said  vaguely.  "  There 
will  be  enough,  there  will  surely  be  enough.  I  need  so 
little.  Listen !  "  His  eyes  were  alight.  Manuella  came 
in  from  the  cookery  to  which  he  had  relegated  her,  and 
stood  listening. 

"  At  first,  when  my  music  was  murdered  and  no  one 
could  sing,  I  was  very  angry.  I  was  angry  with  Manu- 
ella ;  poor  Manuella,  who  cannot  help  it  because  she  can 
only  cook.  For  days  and  days  since  the  theatre  was 
closed  I  heard  nothing.  Then  a  riot  of  music  began 
again,  and  I  saw,  I  saw  all  the  mistakes  that  I  had  made. 
Of  course,  the  opera  is  great ;  but  this  one  will  be  greater, 
and  the  libretto  must  be  in  Italian.  ..." 

He  was  no  less  confident.  Boadicea  was  too  rude  a 
figure,  the  story  too  concrete.  It  was  of  humanity  he 
had  written,  coarse  and  violent,  even  the  woodland  songs 


202  CONCERT   PITCH 

and  twilight  had  been  coloured  by  war  and  bloody  battles, 
by  clash  of  arms.  He  had  heard  and  written  the  birth 
pangs  of  a  mighty  nation.  This  new  work  would  be 
vastly  different ;  he  poured  it  all  out,  nothing  else  in- 
terested him.  There  would  be  one  act  in  England,  the 
land  of  uncleared  forest,  the  land  of  promise  those  first 
Romans  saw  before  their  own  Neronian  legionaries  over- 
ran it.  Then  they  would  see  the  heavy  corn  fleets  ar- 
riving from  the  granaries  of  the  north,  pastures  almost 
too  deep  and  rich  for  cattle,  and  hills  covered  with  innu- 
merable flocks  of  sheep,  their  bodies  weighed  down  with 
wool;  the  harvest  of  amber  from  the  generous  sea;  all 
this  they  should  see  and  hear. 

Gerald  listened  open-mouthed.  He  had  brought  him 
the  tale  of  ruin,  and  his  only  answer  was  the  new  libretto. 

"I  am  glad  it  is  over;  that  Chariot  Queen;  I  want  to 
get  out  of  my  ears  the  crash  of  arms,  the  noise  of  war 
and  lamentation.  In  this  I  have  a  dance  of  elves  in 
moonlight,  a  chorus  of  birds  in  sunshine,  a  skylark  poised, 
black  against  a  grey  sky.  Oh!  but  I  have  beautiful 
things.  Listen !  "  He  took  his  place  at  the  piano. 

Manuella  rested  her  tray  quietly  on  the  table.  Neither 
she  nor  Gerald  moved  whilst  he  played  his  first  inspira- 
tion of  the  "  Dances  of  the  Elves,"  that  delicate  mysteri- 
ous aria  now  known  as  "  The  Grass  Ring."  When  he 
swung  round  on  the  piano  stool  he  was  as  he  had  been 
three  months  ago.  Failure  had  neither  daunted  nor 
changed  him. 

"  So  !  it  is  good— eh  ?  " 

The  music  was  more  than  good,  and  Gerald  went  into 
ecstasies.  Manuella,  too,  joined  in  the  praise,  but  she 
could  see  that  her  words  were  of  less  importance. 

Now  he  told  them  how  the  story  would  unfold,  of 
Cartismandua  and  the  rebellious  Venusias,  of  the  idyll 
with  her  armour-bearer  not  unlike  that  of  Lancelot  and 
Guinevere,  but  more  radiant  and  impelling.  He  talked 
far  into  the  morning ;  he  even  played  again. 

He  gave  no  thought  to  the  state  of  their  affairs.  Three 
o'clock  struck  before  they  went  to  bed.  Gerald  had  said 


CONCERT    PITCH  203 

at  least  thirty  times  that  he  was  the  greatest  musical 
genius  of  the  century,  and  he  had  agreed.  They  went 
to  bed  at  three,  with  never  a  word  of  finance  or  failure. 

So  acutely  he  heard,  but  never  the  pulsing  note  in  the 
heart  of  the  girl  who  presently  lay  at  his  side.  He  was 
a  genius;  but  she  needed  a  husband — a  human  husband 
to  whom  she  could  speak  of  the  trouble  that  was  coming 
to  her.  She  cried  by  his  side  and  he  heard  nothing.  It 
was  from  loneliness  she  cried,  as  widows  cry  in  the  night. 
To  someone  she  must  tell  her  trouble,  and  there  was  no 
one.  She  had  had  the  strength  to  keep  her  secret  until 
after  The  Chariot  Queen  was  produced.  Then,  then  she 
thought  she  would  tell  him.  Now  The  Chariot  Queen 
was  finished,  but  everything  was  to  happen  again  with 
Cartismandua.  She  could  not  tell  him;  he  would  not 
listen.  .  .  .  She  cried  in  her  loneliness  whilst  he  slept 
by  her  side,  dreaming  of  romance  and  chivalry. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

EVERYTHING  was  the  same,  and  yet  everything 
had  changed.  Manuella  was  enciente  with  her 
first  child — an  elemental  difference.  And  Harston  was 
no  longer  in  love  with  her,  although  perhaps  unaware 
of  it.  She  could  not  help  him  in  his  work.  He  said 
quite  frankly  that  he  could  not  bear  to  hear  her  sing. 
Also  they  had  now  no  income  upon  which  to  draw.  Little 
as  she  cared  for  money,  hardly  less  than  he,  she  knew 
it  was  necessary  now,  and  presently  would  be  more 
necessary. 

Gerald  tried  to  keep  up  her  courage,  but  to  him,  as  to 
everyone  who  came  to  the  house,  Harston  was  the  leading 
figure ;  what  he  would  do  next  was  the  great  topic.  There 
was  no  secret  about  Cartismandua.  Gerald  said : 

"  The  Chariot  Queen  was  great,  but  this  will  be  greater 
still.  He  is  writing  now,  not  composing;  but  the  things 
he  has  played  me  !  My  heavens  !  they  are  incomparable ; 
this  time  it  is  a  masterpiece !  Nothing  else  matters. 
You  feel  that,  too,  don't  you?  Of  course,  the  fault 
was  not  yours  The  Chariot  Queen  was  ruined.  But  you 
will  admit  that,  in  the  room,  here,  you  sang  differently?  " 

By  now  Gerald,  too,  seemed  to  think  she  was  respon- 
sible for  the  failure  of  the  opera. 

"  You  won't  let  anything  interfere  with  the  work,  will 
you?  Not  pride,  nor  anything  like  that.  He  must  be 
undisturbed.  When  I  told  him  all  the  money  was  lost 

204 


CONCERT   PITCH  205 

he  only  said  it  was  of  no  consequence.  He  is  wonderful, 
really  wonderful.  I  can  manage  something,  you  know; 
you  and  he  are  welcome  to  anything  I  have.  It  isn't 
much,  but  it  may  help." 

"  Nothing  is  of  consequence  but  that  he  should  be 
undisturbed,"  she  repeated  bitterly,  and  he  took  her  words 
literally. 

"  Of  course,  that  is  the  thing — the  only  thing." 
Gerald  saw  only  Harston.  She  was  not  to  stand  with 
her  mere  material  needs  between  the  poet  and  his  inspira- 
tion, the  musician  and  his  moods.  She  was  to  minister  to 
his  physical  needs,  and  be  proud  of  her  privilege.  She 
had  not  yet  told  her  husband  how  it  was  with  her.  Ab- 
sorbed as  he  was  in  the  beautiful  idyll  of  Cartismandua 
and  her  armour-bearer,  no  one  could  expect  him  to  be 
interested  in  his  wife's  health.  What  was  to  be  done 
when  the  money  in  the  bank  was  exhausted  Manuella  did 
not  know.  She  could  take  money  from  Gerald  Streatfield 
for  Harston's  needs,  but  not  for  her  own ;  her  cheeks 
flushed  at  the  thought.  Yet  there  were  many  things  she 
must  have  .  .  .  baby  clothes,  for  instance.  Now,  for 
the  first  time,  her  dependence  weighed  upon  her.  All  day 
long  Harston  wrote  or  played.  With  her  heart  full,  with 
a  sense  of  disaster  impending  and  complete,  she  went 
about  her  household  work,  holding  and  hiding  her  secret. 
She  had  tried  to  make  up,  in  the  sacrifices  of  her  married 
life,  for  all  the  errors  of  her  impetuous  girlhood.  But 
now,  for  the  moment,  she  was  again  in  rebellion.  She  did 
not  know  what  she  could  do ;  she  had  no  woman  friend  to 
whom  to  turn ;  she  had  only  these  two  men,  to  whom,  as 
she  told  herself  often,  she  was  now  only  an  encumbrance. 
The  prospect  of  a  child  in  these  rooms,  a  crying  child, 
seemed  impossible.  She  was  herself  hardly  allowed  to 
move  when  he  worked,  the  slightest  sound  disturbed  him. 
And  then  she  would  be  ill.  .  .  .  Over  and  over  again 
the  question  turned  in  her  mind:  what  should  she  do? 
She  was  so  utterly  inexperienced,  so  pitiably  young.  But 
she  was  strong.  She  hung  on  to  the  thought  of  her 
strength.  "  I  am  going  to  get  through  somehow.  I  ran 


206  CONCERT    PITCH 

away  with  him  without  loving  him,  only  because  I  was 
out  of  temper.  It  is  I,  not  he,  must  suffer." 

Every  week  it  became  more  difficult  to  tell  him,  because 
each  day  the  new  opera  became  more  engrossing.  He 
lived  in  a  world  of  his  own ;  often  those  vivid  eyes  of  his 
looked  past  her,  as  if  he  never  saw  her  at  all.  That  she 
was  here,  toiling,  and  about  to  bear  a  child,  would  be  for 
him  a  fact  infinitely  small  and  unimportant  compared 
with  his  visions. 

In  the  end,  but  not  before  her  pregnancy  was  far 
advanced,  she  told  Gerald  Streatfield.  "  He  will  put  it  in 
Harston's  biography,"  she  told  herself  bitterly,  "  but  he 
may  be  able  to  advise  me  what  to  do." 

"  You  know  I  am  going  to  have  a  baby."  There  was 
no  use  trying  to  find  another  way  of  saying  it. 

"  I  was  afraid  it  was  so.    What  does  he  say  about  it  ?  " 

"  I  haven't  told  him." 

"  No !  Of  course !  We  must  keep  it  from  him  as  long 
as  possible.  He  ought  not  to  hear,  you  know,  he  really 
ought  to  hear  nothing,  until  his  libretto,  at  least,  is  fin- 
ished. Can  it  be  managed?  That  is  the  question.  He 
tells  me  he  does  not  write  as  easily  in  Italian  as  in 
English  or  German.  He  works  hard,  night  and  day ; 
what  a  man  he  is!  But,  I  say,  what  are  you  going  to 
do?  I  suppose  you'll  have  to  go  away.  He  told  me 
that  at  the  rate  he  is  going  he  ought  to  finish  by  Christ- 
mas. Wagner  wrote  The  Flying  Dutchman  in  seven 
weeks.  It  would  be  an  awful  pity  for  anything  to  inter- 
rupt him." 

"  I  shan't  interrupt  him,"  she  said  sullenly. 

"  No !  I  know,  you  are  simply  ripping  to  him." 

Nevertheless,  although  he  thought  her  of  so  little  ac- 
count, Gerald's  practical  mind  was  very  useful.  He 
found  a  nursing  home  for  her,  and  even  got  over  the 
money  difficulties. 

"  Haven't  you  got  any  jewellery,  anything  you  can 
pawn  ?  " 

Such  a  solution  had  never  occurred  to  Manuella,  but, 
once  Gerald  suggested  it,  everything  became  easy.  She 


CONCERT    PITCH  207 

had  a  small  string  of  pearls  given  to  her  by  her  father 
when  she  was  still  at  school.  She  had  not  brought  away 
the  wedding  present  of  jewellery,  or  any  of  the  things 
Lord  Lyssons  had  given  her,  but  she  wore  always  this 
little  string  of  pearls.  Gerald  was  able  to  borrow  nearly 
two  hundred  pounds  on  them,  which  seemed  an  inexhaus- 
tible fortune.  She  was  very  inexperienced  and  grateful. 
Later,  they  agreed  that  Gerald  should  tell  Harston  of 
what  was  going  to  happen. 

"  I  can  tell  him  casually.  You'll  see  he'll  take  little 
notice  of  it." 

"  What  is  that  of  which  I  shall  not  take  any  notice  ?  " 

Harston  came  in  whilst  they  were  speaking,  looking 
from  one  to  another,  sure,  of  course,  that  they  were  dis- 
cussing him,  some  flaw  or  beauty  they  had  discovered  in 
what  he  had  played  or  read  to  them. 

"  Nothing  of  importance,"  Gerald  answered  cheerfully, 
proud  of  his  presence  of  mind,  "  nothing  to  interfere." 

"Not  the  chorus?" 

"  No,  no!  certainly  not  the  chorus.  I  am  off;  see  you 
later,  perhaps." 

But  when  Gerald  had  gone,  thinking  thus  to  avoid  the 
question,  and  put  off  the  moment  when  it  would  be 
necessary  to  tell  him  of  the  coming  trouble,  Harston 
repeated  the  question  and  pressed  it. 

"  If  it  is  not  the  chorus,  it  must  be  the  quintette.  Tell 
me,"  he  insisted. 

This  was  no  case  of  whispering  in  his  ear,  nestling  in 
his  arms,  crying  on  his  shoulder ;  he  was  not  that  sort  of 
husband. 

"  It  is  nothing  to  do  with  the  opera.  It  is  only  that 
I  am  going  to  have  a  child,"  she  blurted  out. 

"  A  child  !    You  are  going  to  have  a  child  ?  " 

He  seemed  quite  stupefied  and  stared  at  her,  as  if  it 
were  some  action  she  had  taken  against  him,  something 
in  which  he  had  had  no  part. 

"But  it  is  impossible!"  And  then,  after  a  pause, 
recollecting  himself,  and  as  if  in  apology:  "  But  what  a 
trouble,  what  an  inconvenience !  Here ! "  he  looked 


208  CONCERT    PITCH 

around.  "  And  before  the  opera  is  finished  ?  "  He  was 
quite  dismayed. 

"  You  won't  see  or  hear  anything !  "  She  was  almost 
fierce  because  she  would  not  show  she  was  hurt.  "  I  have 
arranged  to  go  away.  I  was  not  going  to  tell  you  at  all. 
As  Gerald  says,  it  is  not  of  any  importance.  You  need 
not  be  inconvenienced.  He  is  getting  a  charwoman.  You 
won't  miss  me  if  I  am  away  for  a  few  weeks,  unless — 
unless  the  omelettes  are  burnt." 

She  was  ashamed  of  her  quick  tears.  She  had  the 
fears  of  her  inexperience,  and  thought  that  perhaps  she 
would  never  come  back.  But  he  would  not  miss  her, 
unless  the  charwoman  cooked  less  well  than  she. 

He  was  not  a  monster,  only  a  genius.  He  said  he 
should  miss  her  all  the  time,  and  that  it  was  dreadful  for 
her,  worse  than  for  him.  He  even  tried  to  comfort  her 
by  saying  cheerfully  that  she  would  be  back  before 
Cartismandua  was  finished. 

"  You  must  not  worry  about  leaving  me  alone.  In  a 
way  I  think  it  is  good ;  I  work  better  if  I  am  quite  alone." 

When  he  was  so  kind  as  to  say  this  she  cried  more,  but 
in  her  own  room,  where  he  could  not  see  her.  The  next 
few  days  he  hardly  wrote  at  all,  but  bewailed  the  mis- 
fortune, kissing  her,  and  saying  with  some  feeling  that, 
of  course,  she  could  not  help  it,  it  was  not  her  fault. 
But  that  for  which  she  ached  he  never  gave  her — an 
understanding  word.  "  Our  baby."  If  he  had  only  said 
that,  it  would  have  been  enough.  But  he  wondered 
instead  what  they  should  do  with  it,  and  if  he  ought  not 
to  go  away  instead  of  her. 

"  I  might  go  over  to  Darmstadt,  to  Germany,  and  work  ; 
but  I  have  so  many  friends  there.  ..." 

She  told  him  hastily  that  all  the  arrangements  were 
now  made. 

"  Well,  it  is  true,  you  know,  that  I  am  better  here. 
These  rooms  are  so  quiet.  ..." 

Afterwards  he  said  they  had  better  leave  off  talking 
about  it,  for  the  anxiety  prevented  him  working.  He 
was  naturally  of  a  sympathetic  nature,  so  he  assured  her, 


CONCERT    PITCH  209 

and  he  was  uncomfortable  in  thinking  that  she  must 
leave  them. 

But  things  were  little  better  when  she  was  actually 
gone.  Fitzroy  Square  was  close  by,  and  he  felt  it  his 
duty  to  visit  her,  to  visit  her  even  daily,  and  this  was  a 
great  interruption.  She  could  not  persuade  him  to  stay 
away.  He  knew  what  was  expected  of  a  husband  and 
future  father ;  he  had  learnt  that  in  Germany. 

Every  time  he  came  to  see  her  he  said  it  was  a  pity  it 
had  happened  before  Cartismandua  was  finished,  and 
wondered  what  they  would  do  with  a  child  in  those  two 
rooms. 

Her  courage  needed  bracing  in  that  week  of  waiting. 
She  had  perhaps  come  into  the  Home  too  early,  or  per- 
haps she  had  waited  too  long  for  attentive  nursing.  She 
felt  ill  and  worse  than  lonely.  Hour  after  hour  she  sat  by 
herself  in  the  room  in  that  inexpensive  maternity  home ; 
alone  with  the  bare  walls,  uncurtained  windows,  un- 
carpeted  floors,  and  the  fear  of  what  was  before  her! 
There  was  no  joy  in  the  prospect.  It  must  not  trouble 
Harston ;  Harston  must  never  hear  an  infant's  cry. 
Sometimes  she  hoped  it  would  not  live,  and  these  were 
her  worst  times.  The  nurse  told  her  it  was  bad  for  her  to 
cry,  and  she  never  cried  except  when  she  was  alone.  She 
wished  Harston  did  not  think  it  his  duty  to  come  every 
day.  His  visits  gave  her  no  pleasure.  Whilst  he  was 
playing  the  affectionate  husband  she  saw,  behind  the  thin 
mask  of  his  solicitude,  the  artist  divorced  from  his  art, 
in  all  the  real  torment  of  arrested  travail.  He  was  quite 
unable  to  conceal  from  her  that  she  had  become  a  burden 
to  him.  Long  afterwards  Gerald  told  her  confidentially : 

"  He  said  there  was  no  room  for  a  minor  third  in  the 
harmony  of  your  lives." 

But  the  harmony  had  never  been  music.  Her  studies 
were  as  if  from  a  beginner's  exercise-book. 

When  the  waiting  time  was  over,  the  long  lonely  hours, 
the  nights  of  wakefulness  and  tears  had  the  natural  effect. 
She  was  very  ill,  so  ill  that  for  a  day  and  a  night  her 
life  hung  on  a  thread.  When  Harston  came — and  she 


210  CONCERT   PITCH 

fought  long  against  his  being  sent  for — he  was  to  hear 
that  a  son  had  been  born  to  him.  In  the  nursing  home 
no  one  showed  tact  in  dealing  with  him.  They  treated 
him  as-  if  he  were  an  ordinary  man,  and  he  fell  to 
pieces  under  the  test.  It  was  a  week  before  he  came 
again.  And  after  that,  Manuella,  her  mind  clear,  al- 
though her  body  was  so  weak,  begged  him  to  stay  away. 
He  brought  her  nothing  but  the  knowledge  that  he  suf- 
fered in  coming ;  that  she  and  the  child  were  no  essential 
part  of  his  life.  He  talked  of  nothing  but  the  opera. 

She  could  not  wait  for  her  convalescence,  the  wailing 
baby  jarred  her  overwrought  nerves.  As  yet,  at  least, 
it  brought  no  message  to  her.  Long  before  her  strength 
returned  she  was  worrying  about  ways  and  means,  think- 
ing how  she  should  manage.  In  four  weeks  she  was 
walking  about  the  room.  In  five  she  surprised  Gerald 
by  her  unexpected  return  to  Bedford  Square. 

"  But  how  good  it  is  to  see  you  here ! " 

Gerald's  welcome,  at  least,  was  spontaneous  and  hearty, 
as  he  met  her  on  the  staircase. 

"  He  is  out ;  I  suppose  he  didn't  know  you  were  com- 
ing. He  is  awfully  restless  and  distrait — off  his  food, 
too.  It  is  a  good  thing  you  are  back ;  it  doesn't  seem  to 
be  going  well  with  the  work ;  I  think  he  has  put  it  aside 
for  the  moment.  There  have  been  one  or  two  inquiries 
about  The  Chariot  Queen.  He  talks  of  rescoring  part 
of  it.  I'm  glad  you  are  back." 

"  I  suppose  he  hasn't  thought  of  any  way  of  making 
money  ?  " 

"  You  can't  harness  Pegasus.  ..." 

Upstairs  she  found  disheartening  things  that  more 
experienced  housekeepers  might  have  expected — dirty 
pots  and  pans,  broken  crockery,  burnt  saucepans,  the 
handiwork  of  the  charwoman  Gerald  had  engaged  from 
the  theatre. 

"  But  what  I  do  say,  ma'am,  is  the  music  your  husband 
makes  of  an  evening  is  that  lovely  I  hain't  got  the  'eart 
to  clean  up.  I  just  sets  and  listens  to  it,  me  apron  over 
me  'ead.  ,  ." 


CONCERT   PITCH  211 

She  was  specious,  dishonest,  drunken.  When  Manuella 
had  got  rid  of  her  volubility  and  excuses,  depressed  in  the 
undusted  sitting-room,  it  seemed  that  this  life  she  had 
prepared  for  herself  was  unbearable,  too  hard  for  her, 
not  worth  living. 

"  She  has  let  everything  go  to  ruin  " — there  was  even 
passion-  in  her  plaint  over  her  household  gods.  Gerald, 
when  he  came  up  in  the  evening,  had  difficulty  in  con- 
soling her.  Secretly  he  thought  she  was  a  little  hard  on 
Mrs.  Mortimer. 

"  But  you'll  soon  have  everything  to  rights  again, 
don't  get  the  hump.  Even  if  he  doesn't  say  anything, 
he'll  be  glad  you  are  back." 

Harston  was  glad,  and  even  said  so.  Yet  all  that 
evening  she  did  not  seem  able  to  shake  off  her  depression. 
It  was,  of  course,  impossible  to  have  a  wailing  infant  here 
with  them ;  she  had  no  feeling  for  it,  and  could  think 
of  it  quite  detachedly.  The  matron  of  the  home  had 
found  a  kind  woman  to  mother  it.  It  was  so  small;  no 
one  could  be  unkind  to  it. 

Gerald  asked  her  why  she  was  depressed.  Harston 
played  to  her  nearly  all  the  evening.  The  baby  had  no 
place,  not  even  in  her  heart.  So  she  thought,  and  that 
all  her  duty  was  to  the  man  to  whom  she  had  run  reck- 
lessly, because  her  stepmother  angered  her. 

The  next  day  and  the  next  were  occupied  in  restoring 
order  to  her  little  domain;  there  was  no  time  for 
fretting. 

It  cost  money  to  replace  necessities.  She  found  herself 
thinking  constantly  of  money.  "  I  am  growing  like  fa- 
ther," she  said  to  Gerald. 

"  Oh,  no ;  don't  say  that !  " 

"  But  what  are  we  to  do  ?  There  is  nothing  coming 
in,  and  you  say  I  mustn't  speak  about  it  to  him.  What 
about  the  rent  ?  " 

"  I've  got  enough  for  that." 

"  We  can't  live  on  you.  I  am  not  going  to  live  on 
you." 

"  He  is  getting  on  ever  so  much  better  now ;  your 


212  CONCERT    PITCH 

affair  put  him  back  months,  positively  months.  We  don't 
know  what  we  have  lost.  It  would  be  simply  awful  to 
pull  him  up  again  over  a  few  pounds.  You  know  in  a 
way  he  is  altered,  there  is  an  exquisite  humility.  He 
doesn't  say  now :  '  I  am  Migotti,  I  have  achieved.'  He 
says :  '  I  am  Migotti,  I  will  achieve.'  One  day,  when  you 
have  time,  I  wish  you  would  look  through  my  notebook ; 
you  will  be  surprised." 

"  He  could  make  all  we  want  by  playing  accompani- 
ments." 

"  You  know  you  don't  mean  it." 

"  I  mean  we  can't  live  on  nothing." 

"  I  never  thought  of  you  as  mercenary." 

"  Well,  you  can  now  if  you  like."  She  was  paying  the 
woman  eighteen  shillings  a  week  to  care  for  her  baby. 
The  seven  weeks  in  the  nursing  home  had  cost  a  fortune. 

The  sense  of  emptiness,  unfulfilment,  depression  per- 
sisted. But  Harston  was  working  well;  inspiration  was 
flowing  back  to  him.  He  said  once : 

"  You  bring  me  good  fortune.  Since  you  are  back  all 
goes  better." 

Since  he  worked  better  because  she  was  here,  she  was 
at  least  keeping  her  marriage  vows — those  vows  made 
after  she  had  had  Lord  Lyssons'  letter.  How  could  it 
be  possible  she  missed  that  wailing  baby?  Neither  the 
baby  nor  the  want  of  money  must  be  allowed  to  impede 
Harston.  Gerald  said  she  had  to  keep  the  gyves  from 
his  spirits,  free  him,  take  all  burdens  on  herself,  and  let 
him  soar. 

He  was  not  yet  soaring,  but  uplifted,  making  flights, 
short,  spasmodic,  that  carried  him  a  little  way,  and 
were  preliminary  to  his  disappearance  in  the  empyrean. 
The  libretto  and  the  music  were  progressing  together, 
but  not  quickly.  He  had  to  be  alone  now ;  he  could 
not  even  bear  her  in  the  room  with  him.  He  may  have 
felt  he  lacked  something  as  a  companion,  as  a  husband. 
He  made  a  sort  of  apology.  Gerald  wrote  down  the 
exact  words ;  it  was  fortunate  he  was  in  the  room. 

"  When  I  am  alone  the  musical  fibres  within  me  vibrate, 


CONCERT    PITCH  213 

heterogeneous  sounds  form  themselves  into  chords,  and 
it  is  then  I  hear  the  melody  which  reveals  my  inner  self 
to  me.  My  heart  in  loud  beats  marks  the  impetuous 
rhythms ;  I  become  excited,  overwhelmed.  Afterwards, 
before  it  is  gone,  I  must  write,  play ;  sometimes  tears 
gush  out  of  my  eyes  as  I  write  or  play.  ..." 

They  could  not  talk  of  money  to  him  after  that. 
Manuella  agreed  with  Gerald  that  it  would  be  impossible. 

Harston  really  lacked  nothing.  Manuella,  women  do 
these  things  often,  went  without  new  clothes,  ate  spar- 
ingly, eked  out  what  little  was  left.  Gerald  paid  the  rent, 
and  was  grateful  for  the  opportunity.  He,  too,  was  living 
for  posterity,  keeping  his  note-book  faithfully. 

"His  time  of  privation.  How  I  was  privileged  to  pay 
the  rent  of  two  rooms  in  Bedford  Square  whilst  the  im- 
mortal work  was  in  progress." 

There  came  a  day  when  she  drew  the  last  ten  pounds 
out  of  the  bank.  What  was  going  to  happen  when  that 
was  gone  she  did  not  know.  This  was  the  day  the  woman 
who  had  charge  of  the  baby  brought  it  to  the  flat.  She 
was  a  married  woman,  with  a  husband  out  of  work,  and 
he  had  had  an  offer  from  an  emigration  agency.  That 
was  why  she  brought  the  child  back  to  its  mother.  He 
was  now  nearly  four  months  old. 

"  He's  a  good  baby,  ma'am.  I  will  say  that  for  him, 
although  he  was  puny  enough  when  I  took  him  from  you. 
Such  eyes  he's  got  on  him  too;  you  wait  till  he  opens 
them.  I'd  keep  him  myself  now,  ma'am,  if  I  was  you, 
if  you'll  excuse  me  saying  so.  It  don't  seem  natural  for 
you  to  be  giving  him  up.  You  never  can  tell  with  these 
women  that  take  children  to  nurse.  I  shouldn't  like  to 
think  of  him  neglected  nor  ill-treated.  Feel  his  weight, 
ma'am;  he's  doubled  since  I  had  him." 

She  gave  the  child  to  Manuella. 

He  seemed  satisfied  to  go  to  her,  and  smiled  into 
her  face — smiled  and  gurgled.  Quite  a  pang  seized  her, 
a  pang  of  tenderness ;  this  was  the  birth  of  mother-love. 
She  stooped  over  him  and  kissed  him,  his  little  cheeks 
were  soft. 


2i4  CONCERT   PITCH 

"  How  small  he  is !     Can't  he  do  anything  for  himself  ?  " 

The  surprise  of  her  tenderness  made  her  speech  in- 
coherent. "  He's  like  my  brother  Bertie  used  to  be. 
Aren't  his  arms  fat?"  She  kissed  them  too,  every 
moment  she  held  the  child  it  became  more  certain  that 
it  belonged  in  her  arms.  She  held  it  closer,  her  heart 
throbbing  as  the  warmth  of  the  little  body  stole  through 
her.  Again  she  put  her  face  down  .  .  .  miracle  of  mira- 
cles, he  had  fallen  asleep  in  her  arms! 

"  You'll  keep  him  yourself,  ma'am  ?  " 

"  Shall  I  know  what  to  do  for  him  ?  "  The  hesitation 
was  artificial.  She  knew  she  would  not  relinquish  him 
again. 

"  The  Lord  sends  the  knowledge  when  he  sends  the 
baby.  You'll  do  well  enough.  You'd  have  done  all 
right  from  the  first  if  they'd  have  let  you.  I  never  believe 
these  stories  doctors  and  nurses  tell  you  about  not  being 
able  to  nurse  a  child  yourself.  If  you'd  have  kept  him  at 
the  breast  he'd  have  sucked  and  sucked  and  brought  the 
milk  along,  bless  him !  That  stuff  they  give  him  in  the 
Home  only  chilled  his  blessed  little  stomach.  I  put  him 
on  warm  barley-water  till  I  freed  him  of  it.  Now  he  gets 
his  milk  with  the  barley-water — no  foods,  no  artificial 
messes.  An'  you  likes  your  bottle,  don't  you,  my 
beauty ! " 

Manuella  had  learnt  none  of  this  talk,  but  the  words 
were  like  a  native  tongue  to  her.  And  all  the  time  the 
baby  slept  in  her  arms.  She  was  told  what  it  was  went 
into  his  bottle;  how  wonderful  to  think  she  would  cook 
for  him !  The  woman  showed  her  how  to  make  the  food, 
and  stayed  a  long  time  talking.  When  the  baby  awoke 
and  cried,  Manuella  put  the  teat  to  its  mouth,  whispered 
to  herself  that  she  was  his  "  mother,"  his  "  mammy,"  and 
was  awed.  The  baby  sucked  greedily  and  fell  asleep, 
sucked  spasmodically  in  its  sleep,  and  slept  again.  His 
eyes  seemed  to  look  at  her,  and  then  they  half  closed. 
The  warmth  in  her  arms  was  sweet  to  her,  a  splendid 
present  that  had  been  brought  her  unexpectedly.  All  the 
time  she  was  being  told  how  to  care  for  it. 


CONCERT    PITCH  215 

"  You  give  a  few  drops  of  dill-water  if  he  cries  as  if 
he's  got  a  pain." 

"Dill-water?" 

"  Or  peppermint.  And  don't  you  feed  him  too  often ; 
it's  regular  as  does  it." 

"  How  often  ?  " 

"  Every  three  hours." 

"Always  the  same  thing?" 

"  More  milk  and  less  barley-water  as  he  gets  on.  He 
won't  give  you  no  trouble.  I've  never  nursed  a  better 
baby,  once  I  got  him  right.  You're  a  born  mother; 
anyone  can  see  that  by  the  way  you  hold  him.  Lovey, 
dovey !  Look  at  'im  now !  The  beauty !  Keep  him 
snuggling  up;  that's  what  they  want  most,  lovin'  of 
them.  You'll  find  out  all  about  him,  he'll  almost  tell  you 
himself." 

Manuella  paid  her  off  presently,  gave  her  a  present  she 
could  ill  afford,  and  thanked  her  for  all  she  had  done. 
Harston  might  come  in  at  any  moment ;  Gerald,  too.  She 
had  to  get  supper  ready.  She  was  reluctant  to  put  the 
child  down,  but  eventually  she  laid  it  on  the  bed.  She 
felt  the  warmth  of  its  body  through  all  her  own  body 
whilst  she  grilled  the  steak  and  fried  the  potatoes.  More 
than  once  she  went  from  the  stove  to  the  bedroom,  light- 
footed,  to  see  what  lay  there.  It  still  slept,  and  once 
smiled  as  if  in  a  happy  dream.  Then  she  kissed  it  again. 
She  knew  she  would  be  able  to  care  for  him.  She  had 
learnt  more  difficult  things  since  she  had  run  away  with 
Harston  Migotti. 

When  Gerald  came  upstairs,  and  Harston  came  in,  she 
gave  them  their  supper.  Harston  was  in  good  spirits, 
full  of  a  wonderful  lyric.  After  supper  he  meant  to  add 
a  final  polish ;  he  would  not  read  it  to  them ;  perhaps  he 
would  play  the  music. 

"  This  story  is  coming  to  me  quite  differently  from 
The  Chariot  Queen.  The  melodies  and  harmonies  are 
born  with  the  words ;  they  seem  to  come  together,  al- 
though the  words  are  sometimes  faint.  But  you  shall 
hear." 


2i6  CONCERT    PITCH 

All  the  evening  he  played,  and  she  went  backwards 
and  forwards  to  the  bedroom,  extraordinarily  happy. 
There  was  no  change  in  their  circumstances;  only  a 
ten-pound  note  was  between  themselves  and  want,  but 
anxiety  and  trouble  seemed  to  have  been  lifted  from 
her. 

Harston  played  himself  into  such  good  humour,  Gerald 
was  so  extravagantly  laudatory,  that  she  took  her  cour- 
age in  both  hands  and  told  them  what  had  happened. 

"  Come  now  and  see  him.  He  hasn't  disturbed  you, 
has  he  ?  I'm  sure  he  never  will.  ..." 

"  But  this  isn't  what  they  showed  me ! "  Harston  ex- 
claimed at  the  sight  of  the  plump  and  sleeping  child. 

They  all  laughed,  even  Harston  himself. 

"  Of  course,  he  has  grown.  I  see.  So  this  is  my 
son!" 

He  watched  it  sleeping;  Gerald  read  his  mind  more 
easily  than  Manuella,  even  now. 

"  You  might  write  a  berceuse  for  him,"  he  suggested. 

"  Ought  his  finger  to  be  in  his  mouth  ? "  Harston 
asked. 

And  none  of  them  knew  if  it  were  right  or  wrong ;  the 
community  of  their  ignorance  drew  them  together.  Hars- 
ton spoke  of  the  Master  and  Siegfried. 

"  I  have  never  thought  about  children — babies.  It  is 
wonderful  that  I  should  have  a  son,  and  that  this  should 
be  he.  What  a  quantity  of  hair  he  has,  but  so  dark ; 
he  is  not  nearly  as  English  as  I."  She  had  not  imagined 
he  would  have  been  so  much  interested.  "  Are  they 
musician's  fingers  ?  "  He  put  his  own,  tentatively,  on  the 
little  fist.  And,  behold,  it  opened,  closing  on  the  tentative 
fingers.  The  conquest  was  complete.  There  was  no 
question  about  its  staying  with  them. 

When  Harston  went  back  to  the  piano,  Manuella  and 
Gerald  stayed  and  talked  in  whispers. 

"  But  if  it  cries  when  he  is  composing?" 

"  He  won't  cry  if  he  is  properly  looked  after,"  she  said 
confidently. 

"  Trust  you  for  that,"  Gerald  answered. 


CONCERT    PITCH  217 

If  the  worst  came  to  the  worst  there  was  his  own  bed- 
room downstairs. 

"  You'll  have  to  take  it  there.  He  might  turn  into 
a  Siegfried  Wagner,  and  spread  his  fame.  I  shouldn't 
be  surprised.  Anyway,  it  will  be  interesting  to  recall 
what  he  said,  and  how  surprised  he  was  that  it  had 
grown.  It  was  less  than  an  hour  old  when  he  first  saw  it. 
Good-night.  Don't  forget  you  can  use  my  room !  Listen ! 
He  has  started  the  berceuse  already.  What  a  man ! " 

Their  voices  woke  the  child ;  it  stirred  in  its  sleep,  and 
started  to  cry.  She  gathered  it  up  in  her  arms  quickly. 
More  clearly  than  the  cradle  song  Harston  was  essaying 
in  the  next  room  she  heard  the  beat  of  the  little  heart 
against  her  own. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

TEN  pounds  between  themselves  and  penury — ten 
pounds!  The  first  week  after  the  baby  came  six 
pounds  went.  She  would  learn  how  to  make  clothes 
for  him,  but  at  present  she  had  to  buy  them.  He  must 
be  put  into  short  clothes.  She  was  so  happy  with  her 
new  responsibility  that  she  could  not  stop  to  think  of 
money.  It  was  true  she  was  a  born  mother,  just  as  she 
was  a  born  housewife.  It  was  as  if  she  had  come  through 
a  great  spiritual  crisis.  Now  she  knelt  before  her 
motherhood  as  a  Christian  convert  at  his  first  commun- 
ion. And  the  baby  throve,  sucked  its  thumb,  gurgled, 
smiled,  and  slept.  She  told  Gerald  it  had  an  instinct 
about  its  father.  If  it  had  to  cry,  and  the  best  of  babies 
must  cry  sometimes,  it  cried  when  Harston  was  out,  or 
sleeping  so  soundly  that  nothing  woke  him.  She  could 
slip  out  of  bed,  take  the  infant  into  the  next  room,  hush  its 
crying,  all  without  Harston  hearing.  The  first  week  flew 
like  lightning ;  every  minute  was  occupied.  Harston  went 
from  his  piano  to  his  desk,  from  desk  to  piano,  and  his 
inspiration  never  flagged.  An  agent  in  Berlin  wrote  to 
ask  about  the  rights  in  The  Chariot  Queen,  and  Gerald 
was  already  inquiring  about  a  translator  for  the  libretto. 
He  said  that  the  Germans  were  really  music-lovers; 
Harston  would  come  into  his  own  in  Germany,  the  Berlin 
Opera  House  was  the  very  place.  .  .  . 

218 


CONCERT    PITCH  219 

"  For  the  great  English  National  Opera  ? "  Manuella 
asked.  But  she  was  really  too  happy  that  first  week  to 
be  satirical. 

A  ring  and  two  brooches  remained  to  pawn.  School- 
girl trinkets  both.  It  was  fortunate  that  Sir  Hubert 
Wagner's  presents  to  his  daughter  had  been  of  good 
quality.  With  another  seventeen  pounds  in  hand  the 
immediate  future  could  be  faced. 

She  saved  and  spared,  chiefly  on  her  own  food ;  work- 
ing early  and  late.  It  was  woman's  work,  not  reckoned 
by  any  schedule,  nor  controlled  by  any  union,  without 
Thursday  half-holidays,  short  days  on  Saturdays  and 
Sundays  off.  Just  woman's  work,  seven  days  in  every 
week,  fourteen  hours  a  day,  with  an  hour  or  two  extra 
taken  from  the  night,  when  she  walked  the  floor  with 
the  baby,  so  that  Harston  should  be  undisturbed. 

Harston  was  completely  absorbed  and  content.  He 
had  found  out  something  new  about  himself.  Whenever 
he  was  not  at  his  desk  or  at  the  piano  he  talked  of  his 
discovery.  He  needed  sympathy,  an  audience,  and,  al- 
though since  she  had  sung  The  Chariot  Queen  music  so 
badly  that  he  was  no  longer  in  love  with  her,  he  told  her 
about  it;  because  she  was  there. 

"  It  is  not  what  Wagner  has  done  for  operatic  music 
in  Germany  that  I  must  do  for  England;  rather  what 
Palestrina  did  for  Church  music  in  Italy.  ..." 

He  would  dilate  upon  this  theme  for  hours,  upon  pure 
melody  and  simplicity  in  harmonies,  and  more  technical 
matters,  whilst  Manuella  wondered  if  the  milk  had  come 
to  the  boil,  and  whether  she  would  have  time  to  peel 
the  potatoes. 

Whenever  he  stopped  to  say :  "  You  agree  with  me, 
of  course  ?  "  she  brought  herself  back  from  the  potatoes 
or  milk  and  answered :  "  I  am  sure  you  are  quite 
right." 

While  he  went  on  talking  she  sometimes  fell  to  won- 
dering how  long  that  seventeen  pounds  would  last.  Baby 
ought  to  have  a  cot,  a  perambulator. 

"  If  I  am  a  poet,  and  there  is  no  doubt  that  I  am  also 


220  CONCERT   PITCH 

a  musician,  that  is  surely  enough.  I  was  wrong  in 
elaborating  the  scenery.  They  would  surely  have  heard 
more  clearly,  understood  my  meaning  better,  if  there 
had  been  nothing  for  the  eye.  It  is  the  ear,  the  ear  and 
the  intelligence,  to  which  I  make  my  appeal.  ..." 

She  herself  ate  little,  she  could  easily  go  without  meat 
altogether.  Two  pounds  a  week  was  ample  for  the  house- 
keeping, even  if  baby  had  his  meat-juice.  A  perambula- 
tor would  cost  three  pounds,  a  cot  thirty  shillings.  Four 
pounds  ten  shillings  from  seventeen  pounds.  .  .  . 

"  In  Shakespeare's  country  I  will  write  my  opera  for 
production  as  Shakespeare  wrote  his  plays.  A  bare  stage, 
a  painted  drop  scene,  no  accessories.  He  had  only  his 
words.  I  have  my  words,  too,  and  my  music  shall  be 
my  scenery,  my  accessories.  ..." 

Gerald  could  argue  with  him,  did  argue  with  him,  in 
the  evenings,  talking  of  Reinhardt  and  modern  condi- 
tions. Manuella  never  argued,  it  was  so  much  simpler 
to  agree  and  go  on  thinking  how  long  she  could  eke  out 
her  money. 

Before  Gerald's  arguments  had  prevailed — and  he  al- 
ways had  the  idea  that  Harston  was  not  quite  serious  in 
his  intention  of  producing  grand  opera  without  scenery — 
the  rent  was  due  again.  Gerald's  resources  were  not  in- 
exhaustible; his  salary  was  at  their  command,  but  it 
was  not  a  princely  one.  Those  two  old  maids  down- 
stairs could  not  be  left  without  the  pittance  upon  which 
they  lived.  What  was  to  be  done  ? 

Manuella's  beauty  now  was  the  beauty  of  emaciation; 
the  perfection  of  line  was  there,  with  the  noble  young 
head,  fine  brow,  Greek  nose,  mouth  a  perfect  bow,  but 
thin  and  without  colour.  There  was  no  colour  in  her 
face  at  all.  Against  the  black  coil  of  her  hair  it  was  like 
fine  ivory ;  the  curled  lashes  lay  over  eyes  that  no  longer 
sparkled ;  they  had  a  new  depth,  a  new  tenderness,  but 
they  were  rarely  uplifted,  they  dwelt  on  humble  things, 
on  things  beneath  them,  on  the  baby  on  her  knee,  the 
saucepan  in  which  she  stirred  his  food.  She  was  so  thin 
that  her  clothes  hung  upon  her.  But  she  was  only  saving 


CONCERT    PITCH  221 

money,  not  making  it,  for  all  her  privation.  What  was 
to  be  done? 

"  I  suppose  you  wouldn't  apply  to  your  people  ? " 
Gerald  ventured. 

"How  can  I?" 

For  herself  it  would  be  impossible.  She  would  rather 
starve ;  she  had  already  begun  to  think  it  was  not  so 
difficult  to  starve  as  people  said,  if  you  used  yourself  to 
it  gradually.  But  there  was  baby,  he  ought  to  have  a 
pelisse,  a  hat  or  bonnet. 

"  You  have  not  heard  anything  more  from  Berlin  ?  " 

"  I  am  getting  the  libretto  translated." 

"  That  will  have  to  be  paid  for  ?  " 

"  I  can  get  it  done  very  inexpensively ;  there  is  a  man 
who  works  for  our  firm.  ..." 

"  Which  means,  I  suppose,  that  you  will  pay  for  that, 
too.  You  would  think  it  too  dreadful  to  talk  to  Harston, 
to  see  if  he  would  propose  something?  The  season  is 
coming  on,  he  could  play.  ..." 

On  that  point  Gerald  was  emphatic. 

"  Even  if  he  would,  he  ought  not  to.  You  don't  under- 
stand. No,  don't  be  angry ;  I  mean  it  is  difficult  for  you 
to  realize  that,  although  The  Chariot  Queen  was  a  fail- 
ure, it  has  given  him  a  certain  position;  his  name  is 
known.  People,  the  right  people,  talk  about  him,  ask 
what  he  is  doing.  The  composer  and  librettist  of  The 
Chariot  Queen  cannot  ask  for  an  engagement  as  an  ac- 
companist !  There  are  some  things  that  can't  be  done. 
He  could  sell  the  score  of  The  Chariot  Queen,  my  own 
people  would  buy  it,  but  only  outright.  He  ought  not 
to  part  with  it  like  that;  it  isn't  fair  to  him,  or,  in  a 
way,  to  you,  or  to  the  boy.  There  is  bound  to  come  a  time 
when  everything  he  has  written  will  be  of  value." 

Manuella  said  desperately : 

"  But  until  then.  ..." 

"  Madame  Liebius  will  be  back  in  less  than  three 
weeks." 

"  And  we  are  to  sponge  on  her?  " 

"  Your  father  has  given  nearly  half  a  million  to  estab- 


222  CONCERT    PITCH 

lish  the  Church  in  South  Africa.  It  was  in  The  Daily 
Telegraph  yesterday.  You  know  they  are  out  there  ?  " 

"  No,  I  don't.  I  am  not  interested  in  them.  Besides, 
I  don't  read  the  papers,  I  haven't  time.  Is  Bertie  with 
them  ?  " 

"  Your  brother  ?  I  don't  know.  No !  I  think  not. 
I've  heard  something  about  him  lately,  what  was  it? 
Oh !  of  course.  ..."  He  stopped  short,  glanced  at  her, 
reddened. 

"  You  may  as  well  tell  me.  Is  he  in  London  ?  What 
is  he  doing  ?  " 

"  There  is  nothing  very  much  to  tell.  It  was  while 
we  were  engaging  the  chorus  at  the  Palestrina,  arrang- 
ing the  ballet,  that  I  heard  of  a  girl  he  was,  well,  sort 
of  engaged  to.  ... " 

Manuella,  although  she  had  been  married  for  eighteen 
months  and  carried  a  baby  in  her  arms,  knew  so  little  of 
the  world  that  he  could  not  put  it  differently  Perhaps 
he  thought  her  more  ignorant  than  she  was,  but,  in  any 
case,  it  was  impossible  for  him  to  say  that  he  understood 
her  brother  was  keeping  Coralie  Standing.  She  pressed 
him,  but  he  had  little  to  add.  She  said  slowly,  presently : 

"  I  might  write  to  Bertie." 

And,  as  she  said  it  slowly,  a  flush  of  home-sickness 
came  upon  her  for  Bertie!  How  fond  she  had  been  of 
him!  Bertie  and  she  had  been  so  much  to  each  other. 
Their  young  days  together  came  back  to  her ;  she  put  her 
face  down  to  the  baby's,  he  was  seldom  out  of  her  arms ; 
there  were  tears  on  her  lashes,  her  voice  was  unsteady : 

"  I  might  write  to  Albert.  I  suppose  he  is  at  Stone 
House  ?  " 

"Do!  I'll  find  out  if  he's  living  at  home.  Anyway, 
they  are  sure  to  know  his  address  there." 

She  had  had  so  much  to  think  of  that  she  had  almost 
forgotten  Albert;  he  would  not  let  her  starve.  He  may 
have  disapproved  of  her  marriage,  taken  sides  with  her 
parents;  her  letter  to  him  addressed  to  Gairoch  had 
come  back  unopened,  but  this,  of  course,  was  Lady 
Wagner's  doing.  But  if  he  knew  she  was  hungry.  .  .  . 


CONCERT   PITCH  223 

She  dashed  off  a  letter  quickly.  Gerald  undertook  it 
should  be  delivered. 

"  DEAR  BERTIE, 

"  I  wonder  whether  you  would  come  and  see 
me,  or  if  you  have  been  forbidden.  I  long  so  to  see  you ; 
I've  something  to  show  you,  something  very  like  you. 
We  were  awfully  fond  of  each  other,  weren't  we?  I'm 
in  a  sort  of  trouble,  nothing  to  do  with  my  marriage, 
and  I  haven't  got  anyone  else  to  turn  to.  But  don't 
come  if  you  don't  want.  Tear  this  up  if  you  like." 

She  found  herself  crying  over  the  paper,  thinking  he 
might  tear  it  up  and  not  wish  to  see  her.  But  she 
wouldn't  be  proud  with  him,  not  too  proud.  She  added 
quickly : 

"  I  do  hope  you'll  write  or  come. 

"  Your  ever-loving  only  sister, 

"  MANUELLA." 


CHAPTER  XX 

THERE  was  good  in  Albert  Wagner,  a  thin  vein  of 
gold  in  the  coarse  quartz ;  too  unprofitable  to  work, 
but  still  gold.  He  could  not  have  received  his  sister's 
letter  before  midday;  at  four  o'clock  he  was  with 
her. 

"  Why  on  earth  didn't  you  write  to  me  before  ?  I've 
often  wondered  where  you  were.  I  don't  believe  I've 
ever  been  up  so  many  stairs  in  my  life.  Why  don't  the 
people  put  in  a  lift,  or  did  I  miss  it?  How  de  do!" 
The  last  was  to  Harston,  who  was  unfortunately  at  home. 

Albert  Wagner  was  a  strange  figure  in  this  wainscoted, 
music-strewn  room. 

"Your  brother?"  Harston  asked  in  surprise,  getting 
up  from  the  piano.  He  had  heard  nothing  of  the  letter, 
but  spoke  cordially,  for  he  was  glad  Manuella  should  be 
reconciled  to  her  family.  Nevertheless  he  quickly  made 
his  escape,  saying: 

"  You  will  like  to  talk  to  each  other  after  this  long 
time."  He  made  his  escape,  but  not  before  Albert  had 
seen  that  he  had  long  hair,  wore  a  shabby  velveteen  coat, 
no  collar,  and  was  unshaven. 

"  God !  what  a  bounder  for  her  to  have  married !  " 
was  the  note  of  Albert's  expressive  countenance.  The 
tone-poet  was  too  sensitive  to  disregard  the  criticism  of 
his  cordial  insincerity,  even  if  too  abstracted  to  care. 

Albert  was  habited  in  the  finest  of  superfine  garments. 

224 


CONCERT    PITCH  225 

His  well-cut,  carefully  pressed  trousers  were  turned  up 
over  his  patent  leather  boots  and  light  spats.  He  had 
the  latest  thing  in  waistcoats,  a  black  morning  coat  cut  to 
accentuate  his  waist,  a  grey  necktie  with  a  pearl  pin,  a 
black  pearl,  almost  priceless.  The  shining  hat  he  guarded 
in  his  hand  had  a  narrow  mourning  band,  not  that 
anyone  was  dead,  but  mourning  bands  were  the  dernier 
cri  in  "  Modes  for  Men  " ;  presently  he  placed  it  reluct- 
antly on  the  piano.  But  when  his  hat  was  off,  Manuella 
could  see  his  hair  shone  too.  Brush  and  brilliantine  had 
been  employed  to  make  it  lie  fashionably  flat  above  his 
narrow  forehead.  His  eyes  looked  weak,  and  the  skin 
about  them  was  baggy.  His  face  was  blotched,  and 
above  the  weak  chin  the  weak  lips  were  pale  and  the 
cheeks  puffy.  But  no  one  could  say  he  was  not  well 
groomed. 

When  Harston  left  them  alone  together  he  said: 

"  I'm  jolly  glad  to  see  you  again,  old  girl."  A  fraternal 
kiss  almost  broke  her  down,  which  surprised  him. 

"  You  aren't  going  to  cry,  are  you  ?  " 

"  Don't  be  so  absurd."  But  certainly  she  looked  as  if 
she  had  been  going  to  cry.  He  felt  rather  like  it  himself. 

"  All  right !  Don't  bite  a  fellow's  head  off.  I  say, 
what's  become  of  the  rest  of  you.  You're  only  rag  and 
bone." 

"  And  a  hank  of  hair !  Why  don't  you  finish  your 
quotation  ?  "  In  quick  question  and  answer  they  escaped 
any  exhibition  of  feeling.  When  they  were  both  more 
normal,  Albert  looked  round  the  room : 

"I  say,  isn't  this  jolly  awful?  Fancy  the  Governor 
and  Mater  leaving  you  to  this,  after  Stone  House  and 
Gairoch.  I  call  it  thick — a  bit  too  thick.  They  aren't 
over  liberal  to  me,  but  this  ..." 

"  I've  been  very  happy  here,"  Manuella  interposed 
quickly ;  she  did  not  like  to  hear  her  home  disparaged. 
She  was  half  hysterical,  extraordinarily  moved  at  seeing 
him.  "  I  like  these  rooms.  It  isn't  the  rooms.  ..." 
0  He  thought  it  "  rum  " ;  he  thought  everything  about 
Jber  rather  rum ;  her  clothes  and  her  bounder  of  a 


226  CONCERT   PITCH 

husband,  and  the  room  without  pictures  or  ornaments. 
He  said  "  Poor  old  girl !  "  and  "  It's  rough  luck,"  and 
"  She  always  was  a  pincher,"  and  other  similar  phrases, 
before  they  settled  back  into  anything  like  their  old 
childish  intimacy. 

And  then  it  was  some  time  before  she  came  to  her 
reason  for  sending  for  him.  She  was  awkward  about  it, 
for  to  ask  Albert  for  help  was  a  reversal  of  all  their 
relations. 

"  You  said  you  had  something  to  show  me.  ..." 

After  she  fetched  the  baby  things  grew  a  little  easier 
between  them.  Baby  was  smiling  and  friendly,  and  Al- 
bert saw  the  likeness  she  pointed  out. 

"  He's  a  rippin'  little  chap.  You  are  quite  right ; 
he  is  like  me.  I  suppose  that's  why  you're  so  fond  of 
him."  For  she  was  hiding  her  face  in  his  soft  hair, 
speaking  baby  language  to  him.  It  was  her  own  eyes  she 
wanted  to  hide  from  Albert,  they  were  again  wet.  "  You'll 
help  me  with  him,"  she  wanted  to  say,  but  the  words 
would  not  come. 

"  I  say,  you  don't  mean  you  nurse  and  look  after  him 
yourself.  He's  got  a  nurse,  I  suppose?" 

"  No."  Her  face  was  still  hidden,  her  voice  stifled. 
"  I  like  doing  things  for  him  myself." 

"  But  when  you  go  out.  ..." 

"  I  don't  go  out." 

"Draw  it  mild." 

"  Well,  not  often."  She  faced  him  then,  flushing. 
There  was  no  use  hiding  the  truth  or  why  she  had  sent 
for  him. 

"  We're  awfully  poor,  you  know." 

She  went  on  more  quickly,  and  now  it  was  he  who 
averted  his  face  from  that  flushed  one  of  hers,  those  wet 
eyes. 

"  I  can't  afford  a  servant  or  ...  or  anything,  until 
the  opera  is  finished.  You  say  I'm  thin  ..."  then  she 
hurried  more,  for  it  was  dreadful  to  tell  him  she  had  not 
enough  to  eat.  Half  a  sob  escaped  her,  changing  into  a 
laugh.  "  Father  has  given  away  half  a  million,  and  if 


CONCERT    PITCH  227 

you  don't  help  me,  his  grandson,  in  another  four  or  five 
days,"  she  cuddled  the  baby  to  her,  "  won't  have  his 
bottle  filled.  ..."  Albert  could  not  face  her. 

"  It  isn't  true." 

"  It's  truer  than  true." 

"  Not  enough  to  eat !    I  say !  " 

His  own  voice  was  broken,  he  was  confounded,  he  had 
not  known  himself  capable  of  so  much  emotion,  he  felt 
like  crying;  it  is  possible  he  was  crying;  anyway,  he  did 
not  speak  for  a  moment  or  two. 

"  You'll  help  us,  won't  you  ?  " 

"  Not  enough  to  eat !  I  can't  believe  it.  Why  didn't 
you  write  before,  or  to  the  Governor?  It's  just  like  you 
.  .  .  you're  such  a  fool.  ..." 

Albert  began  to  bluster;  he  had  to  do  something  to 
keep  from  crying,  he  was  of  course  a  weakling. 

"  It's  your  damned  pride.  ..." 

"  Well,  I'd  rather  starve  than  ask  her  for  anything. 
She  is  enjoying  all  this  newspaper  gabble  over  that  half 
million  father  is  giving  to  the  Church  in  South  Africa. 
I  did  think  of  sending  a  picture  to  The  Daily  Mirror  of 
'  Strangers  relieving  Lady  Wagner's  stepdaughter.' " 

It  was  sob  and  laughter,  but  Albert  only  heard  the 
laughter. 

"  Oh,  shut  up ;  don't  laugh !  I  can't  bear  it.  Mimi, 
damn  it !  "  his  eyes  were  quite  red,  "  I've  always  been 
fond  of  you,  you  might  have  written.  ..." 

He  sank  into  a  chair,  and  actually  cried  without  dis- 
guise ;  positively  she  had  to  comfort  him.  She  went  over 
to  him,  and  roughened  up  his  hair  with  her  disengaged 
hand  in  the  old  way. 

"  Don't  cry,  silly.  I  did  write,  I  have  written ;  I 
didn't  starve.  There's  a  lot  of  nourishment  in  porridge. 
It  isn't  as  bad  as  all  that ;  I  can  even  give  you  a  cup  of 
tea." 

"  You're  such  a  damned  fool.  ..."  that  was  by  way  of 
endearment.  He  kissed  her  again  roughly;  his  tears 
were  wet  on  her  cheeks.  She  disengaged  herself  from 
him,  laughing,  and  crying,  and  protesting. 


228  CONCERT    PITCH 

"  You're  crushing  baby ;  he'll  start  crying  in  a  minute. 
Don't,  Bertie,  don't.  I  can't  stand  it.  ...  " 

It  was  not  their  way  to  be  emotional  with  each  other ; 
Albert  was  soon  ashamed  of  his  tears. 

"  Of  course  something  will  have  to  be  done.  ..." 

"  It's  only  tiding  us  over  the  next  few  weeks  or 
months.  It  isn't  as  if  there  was  any  doubt  about  Hars- 
ton's  genius.  The  Chariot  Queen  will  be  produced  in 
Berlin;  the  new  opera  is  finer  than  that." 

"  Do  you  mean  that  all  you've  got  to  look  to  is  what 
that  fellow  makes  out  of  writing  music  ?  " 

"  When  baby  is  a  little  older  I  could  give  lessons  or 
demonstrations  in  cookery,  or  learn  typing;  there  are 
ever  so  many  things  I  could  do.  It's  only  the  next  few 
months.  ..."  She  laughed  again  hysterically.  "  Half 
a  dozen  solid  meals,  and  the  knowledge  that  baby 
wouldn't  have  to  go  without  his  bottle,  and  I  believe  I 
could  make  a  living  for  us  all.  You  don't  know  how 
clever  I  am.  I  believe  I  can  do  anything  but  sing." 

"Sing!  Why  the  devil  should  you  sing?"  He  had 
not  quite  recovered  himself;  he  took  out  his  pocket- 
book  and  emptied  its  contents  on  the  table.  "  Of  course 
I  shall  see  you  through.  How  about  this  ?  Count  it,  will 
you  ?  They'll  have  to  fork  you  out  an  allowance.  ..." 

Albert  had  nearly  thirty  pounds  in  his  pocket-book, 
quite  a  fortune.  She  would  only  take  twenty  of  it.  She 
said  it  was  all  right  now  they  were  in  touch  with  each 
other  again. 

"  Twenty  pounds  will  last  me  two  months.  By  then 
something  may  have  happened  with  the  opera.  ..." 

They  had  tea  together.  He  held  the  baby  whilst  she 
made  tea,  and  was  quite  clever  in  handling  him,  with  the 
assistance  of  various  instructions  she  called  out  to  him 
from  time  to  time  as  she  got  the  cups  and  saucers. 

It  was  whilst  they  were  at  tea  she  heard  about  all  his 
own  debts  and  difficulties.  His  allowance  of  five  thousand 
a  year  he  naturally  exceeded ;  he  was  overdrawn  at  his 
bank,  up  to  his  ears  in  debt.  His  magnanimity  in  empty- 
ing his  pocket-book  for  her  became  obvious. 


CONCERT    PITCH  229 

"  You  don't  know  how  they  set  about  a  fellow  who's 
supposed  to  have  money." 

She  heard  again  of  money-lenders,  touts  and  racing 
tipsters,  of  jewellers  who  pressed  their  wares.  And 
incoherently,  elliptically,  she  was  told  of  other  expenses. 

"  A  fellow  can't  live  alone ;  you  know  what  I  mean. 
A  fellow  gets  into  a  mess  before  he  knows  where  he  is. 
You  sent  your  letter  to  Coralie's  flat."  She  did  not  stop 
him  to  say  that  that  was  Gerald's  doing.  "  I  never 
wanted  the  flat,  I  knew  it  was  too  expensive ;  she  took 
it  herself.  And  there  are  always  dressmakers'  bills  and 
things.  .  .  .  You  can't  keep  expenses  down  if  you  are 
the  only  son  of  a  multi-millionaire.  They  say  the  Gover- 
nor is  going  to  get  a  peerage.  I  ought  to  have  at  least 
another  five  thousand  a  year.  ..." 

She  could  read  his  life  through  his  confidences.  There 
had  been  no  good  influence  it  in,  no  glimpse  of  higher 
things  than  the  gratification  of  his  passions,  appetites, 
or  vanity.  His  mother  had  wished  him  to  make  aris- 
tocratic acquaintances,  his  father  had  been  absorbed  in 
affairs.  He  had  been  a  prey  to  unprincipled  men  and 
women,  all  intent  upon  "  getting  a  bit  "  from  this  scion 
of  the  millionaire  house.  He  was  ashamed  of  the  story 
he  had  to  tell — as  much  ashamed  of  his  own  as  he  was 
shocked  at  hers.  He  was  not  naturally  a  spendthrift, 
nor  even  extravagant,  and  his  tastes  were  domestic,  al- 
though he  had  no  opportunity  to  indulge  them  in  the 
flat  he  shared  with  a  greedy  theatre  girl.  As  he  talked, 
red-eyed  and  repentant,  one  could  see  that  he  was  weak 
rather  than  wicked. 

"  You  know,  in  a  way,  this  isn't  so  bad  when  you  get 
used  to  it — the  baby,  and  all  that.  It's  better  than 
going  from  the  '  Ritz  '  to  the  '  Savoy,'  from  one  place  of 
amusement  to  another,  your  hand  in  your  pocket  all  the 
time.  Her  damned  car  cost  me  eight  hundred  pounds, 
and  she  goes  out  in  it  with  other  fellows.  ..." 

He  did  not  go  away  until  nearly  seven  o'clock,  until 
Gerald  came  and  was  introduced.  Gerald  seemed  to 
Albert  one  degree  better  than  his  brother-in-law,  but  only 


23o  CONCERT    PITCH 

one  degree.  He  thought  he  looked  like  a  city  clerk, 
which  indeed  he  was,  and  that  Manuella  had  made  a 
most  awful  mess  of  things. 

By  the  time  he  found  himself  outside  the  house,  he 
remembered  he  had  been  forbidden  to  hold  any  com- 
munication with  his  disgraced  and  disgraceful  sister,  and 
that  his  stepmother  had  impressed  it  upon  him.  Before 
he  dined  that  night,  at  the  "  Berkeley,"  with  a  couple  of 
other  fellows,  he  had  begun  to  be  uneasy  at  the  con- 
sequences of  his  action.  He  was  up  to  his  neck  in 
debt,  and  Loetitia  was  quite  capable  of  cutting  off 
supplies. 

When  he  was  at  Bedford  Square  it  had  been  his  inten- 
tion to  write  to  his  parents  on  Manuella's  behalf.  Before 
he  had  finished  dressing  for  dinner  he  thought  it  would 
be  better  to  do  what  he  could  himself,  on  the  strict  q.  t. 
He  remembered  what  a  hole  he  would  be  in  if  they  did 
not  settle  up  for  him.  He  had  that  unsound  spot  in  him, 
that  soft,  inherent,  gangrenous  selfishness. 

It  was  a  curious  coincidence  that  he  should  meet  Lord 
Lyssons  that  evening.  He  was  dining  at  the  "  Berkeley," 
and  Waldo  sat  at  the  next  table.  At  first  he  did  not 
know  what  to  do;  he  looked  away  and  felt  awkward,  but 
when  Lyssons  nodded  to  him,  he  returned  the  greeting. 

"  I  didn't  know  you  were  back,"  he  said,  later  on, 
when  they  were  in  the  hall. 

"  Neither  did  I  until  yesterday.  I  wasn't,  as  a  matter 
of  fact.  How  is  everybody  ?  What's  the  news  ?  Where 
are  you  off  to  ?  Going  my  way  ?  " 

Albert  was  flattered  at  Lord  Lyssons'  cordiality.  He 
was  going  to  do  what  he  did  six  evenings  a  week,  and 
twice  on  Wednesdays  and  Saturdays.  He  was  going  to 
sit  in  a  stall  in  the  Gaiety  and  watch  Coralie  Standing 
dance.  Afterwards  he  would  probably  entertain  her  and 
her  friends  to  supper.  Later  still,  he  might  adjourn  to  a 
house  in  Bruton  Street,  where  chemin  de  fer  was  played 
— with  a  cagnotte,  but  avoiding  the  police  and  the  Gam- 
ing Act  under  the  pretence  of  being  a  private  house.  He 
had  already  been  robbed  of  over  ten  thousand  pounds 


CONCERT   PITCH  231 

there,  and  had  a  foolish  hope  of  getting  it  back.  He  did 
not  give  the  whole  of  the  projected  evening  to  Lord 
Lyssons,  but  answered : 

"  I've  got  a  stall  at  the  Gaiety.  I  suppose  you  haven't 
seen  The  Whispering  Girl?" 

"  No.  Is  it  very  good?  Do  you  think  I  could  get  a 
stall?" 

"  I'm  pretty  pally  with  the  management.  If  there's 
one  in  the  house  they'd  give  it  me." 

"  Then  it  will  be  a  great  thing  for  me  to  go  there  with 
you?" 

"  I  didn't  say  that." 

Albert,  too,  could  be  sullen.  Lord  Lyssons  apologized 
for  his  frivolity.  He  shared  a  cab  with  Albert,  and  went 
to  the  Gaiety.  A  stall  was  secured  without  apparent 
difficulty.  Albert  pointed  out  Coralie.  She  wore  a  dia- 
mond necklace  which  distinguished  her  from  the  other 
chorus  girls.  Albert  was  not  at  all  reticent ;  Waldo  was 
apparently  sympathetic. 

He  asked  after  many  of  their  mutual  acquaintances, 
after  Sir  Hubert  and  Lady  Wagner,  the  Sallusts,  the 
Banffs. 

"  I  only  got  back  last  night,  I  haven't  seen  a  soul. 
..."  He  asked  after  everyone  but  the  one  person  of 
whom  he  wished  to  hear. 

"  Your  father  has  had  a  stroke  of  paralysis ;  I  am  sorry 
to  hear  that.  The  last  I  heard  of  him  he  was  in  South 
Africa;  some  scheme  about  building  churches." 

"  He  gets  about,  but  he  isn't  himself ;  my  mother  man- 
ages all  his  business  affairs — everything.  They  are  still 
in  South  Africa,  sort  of  pilgrimage  idea  about  it.  No, 
not  expiation ;  I  don't  think  the  Governor  ever  did  any- 
thing he  shouldn't.  But  Lourdes,  you  know,  and  that 
sort  of  thing ;  he  thinks  he'll  get  his  health  back.  I  say, 
come  on  to  supper  with  us  afterwards;  there'll  be  a  lot 
of  girls.  I  wish  you  would.  I'll  introduce  you  to  Coralie. 
She  always  says  I  don't  know  anyone.  ..." 

Waldo  actually  supped  at  Romano's  with  Bertie  Wag- 
ner, two  touzled  damsels  with  a  last  train  to  catch, 


232  CONCERT    PITCH 

Coralie  in  her  most  bewitching  mood,  Elsie  Bantock, 
Major  Dawson,  and  a  youth  with  a  narrow  forehead, 
projecting  teeth  and  a  Jewish  name. 

When  Albert  wrote  to  his  stepmother,  he  chronicled 
the  incident  in  the  way  he  thought  would  appeal  to  her. 

"  Such  a  curious  thing,  Lyssons  has  turned  up  again. 
I  dined  and  supped  with  him  last  night ;  he  has  asked 
me  to  drive  down  to  Ranelagh  with  him  to-morrow, 
seems  to  have  taken  quite  a  fancy  to  me.  I  suppose  you 
don't  mind.  After  all,  it  was  Manuella  threw  him  over, 
not  he  her.  If  he  does  not  resent  it,  I  suppose  we  need 
not.  ..." 

Afterwards  his  letters  were  full  of  this  growing  inti- 
macy. Albert  was  amazingly  flattered  by  Waldo's  inter- 
est in  him.  Waldo  by  this  time  knew  all  about  Coralie 
and  the  flat,  the  gaming  hell  in  Bruton  Street,  and  all  the 
imbroglio  of  his  affairs.  Waldo  gave  him  good  advice, 
and  Albert  always  meant  to  follow  it. 

"  All  right,  I'll  stop  away.  I  lose  every  time  I  go  to 
the  damned  place.  I  believe  they  stack  the  cards  ;  I  never 
get  a  pass." 

"  My  dear  fellow  " — Albert  had  advanced  to  calling 
Lord  Lyssons  "  my  dear  fellow  " — "  give  up  Coralie  and 
the  flat !  I  wish  to  God  I  could.  She  won't  let  me  off ; 
she  knows  the  Governor's  '  shaky.' ): 

"  I  suppose  you  have  promised  to  marry  her  if  anything 
happens  to  him  ?  " 

"  More  or  less." 

"  Principally  more,  I  suppose.  But  I  shouldn't  do  it 
if  I  were  you." 

And  then,  at  last,  after  a  fortnight  of  Albert's  society, 
without  hearing  anything  of  Manuella,  without  being 
able  to  ask,  and  yet  hungry  to  hear,  he  said: 

"  You  couldn't  introduce  her  to  your  sister,  you  know." 

"  I  don't  know  that.  You  should  see  the  people  my 
sister's  mixed  up  with.  Chaps  with  long  hair — city 
fellows.  .  ." 


CONCERT   PITCH  233 

He  gave  a  short  description  of  the  stairs  he  had  climbed 
to  get  to  her,  and,  seeing  Lord  Lyssons  appeared  inter- 
ested he  went  on : 

"  I  never  understood  about  you  and  Manuella.  It 
isn't  a  delicate  subject,  is  it?"  Waldo  shook  his  head 
as  Albert  looked  at  him  interrogatively.  "  I  thought  at 
one  time  she  was  awfully  gone  on  you.  The  mater  said 
something  one  day  about  your  being  '  eccentric,'  or  some- 
thing like  that,  and  she  turned  on  her  like  a  wild  cat.  I 
don't  believe  she  cared  a  bit  about  the  chap  she  married ; 
nobody  could,  you  know.  I  believe  the  mater  ragged  her 
into  it.  She  was  certainly  gone  on  you  at  one  time. 
You  don't  mind  me  saying  so,  do  you  ?  " 

If  the  hand  rolling  the  cigarette  was  not  quite  steady, 
Albert  was  not  the  man  to  notice  it. 

"  I  hope  she  is  happy !  " 

"  Happy !  She's  damned  miserable.  They  haven't  got 
a  bob.  ..." 

The  whole  story  came  out.  Albert  was  perhaps  a  little 
vainglorious  in  telling  it.  He  had  got  over  his  emotion 
by  now. 

"  I  emptied  my  pocket-book  the  first  time  I  went  there. 
I  cried  like  a  child.  She  hadn't  had  enough  to  eat ;  she'd 
gone  to  skin  and  bone.  ..."  Under  his  tan  Waldo  went 
very  pale.  He  lit  the  cigarette  he  had  rolled. 

"  Poor,  is  she  ?  " 

"  Bally  near  starving!  Of  course,  if  the  Governor  was 
anything  like  himself,  if  he  wasn't  under  Steppie's 
thumb  ..." 

"  You  think  he  doesn't  know  ?  " 

"  Stands  to  reason.  Why,  it's  a  public  scandal,  a  crying 
scandal,  that's  what  it  is.  Over  half  a  million  in  churches, 
and  God  knows  what  in  charity,  and  party  things.  He 
is  going  to  get  a  peerage,  and  you  don't  get  a  peerage 
for  nothing,  and  his  only  daughter  without  a  cent.  She 
says  she's  going  to  teach,  or  cook.  ..." 

"  She  is  brave,  then  ?  " 

"  Brave !  I  believe  you.  She  laughed  when  she  told  me ; 
said  porridge  was  sustaining  if  you  got  enough  of  it." 


234  CONCERT    PITCH 

Waldo  heard  all  the  details,  as  he  had  heard  all  about 
Coralie.  Albert  could  keep  nothing  to  himself.  Why 
had  he  asked  if  she  were  brave?  Had  he  not  known  she 
was,  and  of  all  her  high  courage  ?  He  had  left  her  when 
he  should  have  stayed ;  understood  too  late. 

"  They  are  living  in  London  ?  "  He  went  on  with  his 
questions;  he  had  to  hear. 

"Bedford   Square." 

"  I  wonder  if  she  would  like  me  to  call  upon  her?" 

"  Oh,  no !  "  Albert,  Loetitia's  pupil,  was  ashamed  lest 
Lord  Lyssons  should  see  how  his  sister  lived,  and  where. 

"  Oh,  no ;  I'm  sure  she  wouldn't  like  it.  No  one  goes 
to  see  her.  She'd  hate  it,  I'm  sure.  She  does  all  the 
housework,  minds  the  baby ! " 

'  There  is  a  baby,  then?  " 

This  conversation  took  place  in  Waldo's  chambers  in 
the  "  Albany,"  where  Albert  had  come  up  for  a  drink. 
After  he  had  made  that  inquiry,  and  been  told  he  was 
not  to  go  and  see  her,  Lord  Lyssons  busied  himself  with 
the  glasses,  turning  his  back  on  his  guest. 

"Rather!  quite  a  little  ripper;  it's  like  me — got  blue 
eyes.  I  quite  took  to  it." 

"  You  go  there  often  ?  " 

"  Not  so  very  often.  I  tell  you  it  gives  me  the  hump ; 
although  it  is  jolly  enough  in  a  way.  But  I  don't  want 
to  meet  him,  and  there's  another  fellow,  a  city  clerk  sort 
of  chap,  who  lives  in  the  same  house.  They  are  neither 
of  them  over  clean.  I'm  sure  I  don't  know  how  Manuella 
stands  it." 

"  You  send  her  money  ?  " 

"  Well,  to  tell  the  truth,  I  haven't  sent  her  anything 
since  I  emptied  my  pocket-book  ...  it  isn't  three  weeks 
ago.  She  said  it  would  last  her  a  couple  of  months." 

'*  You  carry  a  lot  about  with  you  ?  " 

"  It  was  over  twenty  pounds." 

"  A  fortune !  "  He  could  not  help  it ;  but  Albert  was 
not  of  a  stock  to  understand  satire. 

"  And  her  husband ;  doesn't  he  earn  money  ?  " 

"  He   don't  do  a  thing,"  Albert  answered   gloomily. 


CONCERT   PITCH  235 

"  He  is  writing  something,  I  don't  know  what.  That 
opera  of  his  was  a  ghastly  failure,  ran  a  week  ..." 

Bertie  could  not  tell  him  any  more.  The  intermittent 
trickle  about  his  sister  and  her  affairs  dried  up  suddenly. 
"  Don't  let's  talk  of  it.  I'm  so  damned  sick  of  the  whole 
affair." 

He  went  away  soon  afterwards.  For  all  his  promises, 
the  baccarat  tables  still  allured  him.  Waldo,  however, 
found  no  difficulty  in  making  other  opportunities ;  Albert 
thought  Lord  Lyssons  had  taken  a  fancy  to  him,  and,  as 
had  been  seen,  he  wrote  this  to  his  parents.  He  hardly 
knew  how  it  came  about,  some  weeks  later,  that  he  found 
himself  writing  to  them  about  Manuella.  Although 
Waldo  might  have  explained. 

"  I  have  said  all  along  they  ought  to  know.  I  wish  you 
would  help  me — write  me  a  draft,  or  dictate  a  letter. 
But  it  mustn't  come  first-hand  from  me.  I  am  not 
supposed  to  see  her,  you  know.  And  she  says  she'd 
sooner  starve  than  ask  help  of  Steppie." 

Lord  Lyssons  may  not  have  actually  dictated  the  letter 
Lady  Wagner  eventually  received,  but  it  was  certainly 
written  in  the  Albany  Chambers: 

"  DEAR  MATER  AND  DAD, 

"  I  think,  notwithstanding  my  promise  that  her 
name  is  not  to  be  mentioned,  I  ought  to  let  you  know 
there  was  a  line  in  one  of  the  Radical  papers  last  Sunday 
about  '  men  who  give  half  a  million  for  the  establishment 
of  churches,  and  let  their  own  flesh  and  blood  die  of 
starvation.'  I  thought  you  ought  to  know.  There  seems 
to  be  no  doubt  that  Manuella  is  shockingly  hard  up. 
Her  husband  brought  out  an  opera  and  so  got  himself 
talked  about.  It  wasn't  a  success,  but  it  was  supposed 
to  be  clever  and  there  was  a  lot  about  it  in  the  papers, 
and  that  his  wife  was  the  only  daughter  of  Sir  Hubert 
Wagner.  If  the  Governor's  name  is  in  the  Birthday  List, 
there  might  be  some  nasty  talk.  A  man  at  the  theatre 
the  other  night  asked  me  if  it  was  true  there  was  going 
to  be  a  subscription  got  up  for  the  Migottis,  and  wasn't 


236  CONCERT   PITCH 

she  my  sister?  I  felt  rather  awkward  as  you've  for- 
bidden me  to  do  anything.  They've  got  a  baby  and  no 
money  at  all.  If  you  could  see  your  way  to  make  her 
an  allowance  I  should  be  in  a  position  to  stop  all  the  talk, 
say  there  was  never  any  truth  in  it.  It  needn't  be 
much.  ..." 

The  brain  behind  that  disingenuous  letter  was  certainly 
a  wise  one.  Albert  himself  read  it  aloud  to  Lyssons  and 
said  with  pride: 

"  That  will  touch  her  up,  I  bet !  " 

Waldo  said  it  was  quite  clever,  and  did  him  credit. 

"  You  ought  to  have  been  in  the  Diplomatic  Service." 

"  That  is  what  Coralie's  father  was  saying  the  other 
night." 

"  An  ambassador  himself,  perhaps." 

"  No,  no,  not  exactly  .  .  .  he's  .  .  .  he's  a  waiter  in 
Soho." 

The  answer  to  Albert's  letter  came  by  cable,  and  was 
to  the  family  solicitor.  He  was  to  find  the  whereabouts 
of  Hubert  Wagner's  daughter,  and  pay  her  an  allowance 
of  eight  hundred  a  year. 

Four  weeks  passed,  however,  before  that  happened. 
In  the  meantime  Manuella  received  by  post  a  registered 
packet,  containing  ten  five-pound  notes.  Gerald  believed 
it  came  from  an  admirer  of  Harston  Migotti's  work. 
Manuella  had  little  doubt  it  was  from  Albert.  The  money 
was  still  not  exhausted  when  the  news  of  her  allowance 
arrived. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

THE  letter  from  the  lawyers  was  very  brief.     They 
had,  of  course,  no  difficulty  in  finding  the  Migottis' 
address. 

"  We  are  instructed  to  pay  to  you  quarterly  the  sum 
of  two  hundred  pounds,  and  shall  be  glad  if  you  will 
furnish  us  with  the  name  of  your  bankers." 

She  had  a  little  struggle  with  her  pride  before  accept- 
ing it.  Had  the  second  letter  come  before  the  first  the 
struggle  would  have  been  more  severe.  Certainly  she 
would  never  have  penned  that  grateful,  expansive  letter 
to  her  father.  The  second  letter,  four  weeks  later,  ran : 

"  We  are  instructed  to  ask  you  not  to  communicate 
with  either  Sir  Hubert  or  Lady  Wagner.  The  allowance 
is  a  voluntary  one,  and  will  cease  if  there  is  any  attempt 
at  molestation.  .  .  .  Lady  Wagner  trusts  you  will  give 
the  same  publicity  to  your  improved  circumstances  as  you 
did  to  the  poverty  you  brought  upon  yourself  by  leaving 
your  parents  in  ignorance  of  your  whereabouts.  ..." 

Messrs.  Loftus,  Son,  and  Cleaver,  being  a  high-class 
and  discreet  house  of  law,  translated  Lady  Wagner's  in- 
temperate letter  to  them  as  mildly  as  they  were  justified. 
She  seemed  to  think  it  was  their  fault  that  anything  dero- 

237 


238  CONCERT    PITCH 

gatory  to  the  dignity  of  the  family  had  been  allowed  to 
get  into  the  papers.  They  had  not  seen  the  paragraphs 
to  which  she  alluded.  No  one  in  the  firm  had  seen  them, 
which  is  perhaps  not  surprising.  They  defended  them- 
selves in  their  reply. 

Before  the  second  letter  came,  Manuella  had  already 
decided  on  moving  from  Bedford  Square. 

"  We  should  be  better  in  a  house  of  our  own.  Don't 
you  think  so,  Harston,  with  a  garden.  ...  ?  " 

Harston  was  glad,  but  not  at  all  excited  that  she  had 
now  an  income. 

"  You  would  like  a  room  of  your  very  own,  where 
your  papers  would  never  be  disturbed,  where  we  should 
not  have  to  take  all  our  meals." 

He  thought  he  would  like  that,  and  amplified  the  idea. 

"  It  should  be  a  big  room,  with  a  great  window  over- 
looking green." 

Gerald  said  Harston's  tastes  were  very  like  Wagner's, 
although  he  had  subordinated  them  so  wonderfully  he 
had  the  same  luxurious  ideas. 

But  Manuella  had  grown  practical. 

"  We  shan't  be  able  to  live  in  a  palace  on  eight  hun- 
dred a  year." 

They  were  all,  however,  -agreed  that  it  would  be  a  good 
thing  to  have  a  house  of  their  own,  with  fewer  stairs,  and 
a  garden  for  the  baby.  Gerald  would  either  live  with 
them,  or  near. 

"  I  can't  do  without  Gerald,"  Harston  said  affec- 
tionately, and  his  future  biographer  was  quite  over- 
whelmed. 

In  house-hunting  it  is  unusual  to  find  the  ideal,  and 
certainly  it  is  never  found  quickly.  It  was  after  many 
fruitless  and  wearisome  days  that  Manuella  arrived  at 
the  cul-de-sac  out  of  Circus  Road,  St.  John's  Wood,  and 
in  the  first  three  minutes  discovered  she  had  been  indeed 
so  fortunate.  There  was  a  large  secluded  garden,  with 
fine  old  trees,  and  an  overgrown  lawn.  The  house  was  of 
less  importance.  It  was  on  two  floors  and  the  rooms  were 
small.  Built  during  the  Victorian  era,  it  had  no  archi- 


CONCERT   PITCH  239 

tectural  pretensions.  There  was  nothing  even  vaguely 
reminiscent  of  Queen  Anne;  the  Adam  Brothers  or 
Mr.  Gamier  might  never  have  been.  But  Manuella  knew 
nothing  of  architecture.  That  which  fascinated  her  was 
the  walled  seclusion  of  the  generous  garden.  After  that 
she  became  aware  of  a  big  studio  to  which  the  drawing- 
room  had  been  sacrificed.  She  heard  afterwards  that 
the  house  had  been  for  many  years  in  the  possession  of  a 
bachelor  artist.  There  was  no  drawing-room.  That  fact, 
and  the  smallness  of  the  dark  dining-room,  with  the  in- 
convenient little  sitting-room,  accounted  for  it  having 
been  so  long  unoccupied.  The  studio  ran  right  up  to  the 
wall  of  the  garden ;  it  was  long  and  narrow,  top-lighted. 
It  was  inaccessible  from  the  kitchen,  or  might  have 
served  as  a  dining-room.  In  fact,  from  a  house-agent's 
point  of  view,  it  was  a  completely  selfish  room,  only 
suitable  for  its  former  occupant.  But  Manuella  saw  all 
the  possibilities  in  it.  Here  Harston  could  be  uninter- 
rupted ;  he  would  be,  as  it  were,  cut  off  from  the  house- 
hold. The  small  sitting-room  was  quite  large  enough 
for  her ;  the  dining-room  could  be  made  lighter.  Upstairs 
there  were  four  bedrooms  and  a  bath-room.  Part  of  the 
garden  had  been  sacrificed  to  the  studio,  but  enough 
remained  to  make  one  forget  how  near  it  was  to  the 
Edgware  Road,  and  all  the  noise  of  London. 

When  she  had  finished  her  inspection  of  the  house,  she 
stood  under  one  of  the  old  trees  in  the  garden,  a  leafy 
and  luxuriant  chestnut,  and  looked  about  her.  She  knew 
already  this  was  to  be  her  new  home.  There  was  a 
tangle  of  weeds  in  the  flower-bed  under  the  wall,  over- 
grown grass  was  on  the  small  lawn.  A  broken  plaster 
figure  of  a  Naiad  lay  in  a  stone  basin  that  had  once  been 
a  fountain.  There  was  barely  a  quarter  of  an  acre  alto- 
gether, including  the  ground  covered  by  the  house  and 
studio ;  but  it  seemed  almost  an  estate  to  Manuella  after 
the  rooms  in  Bedford  Square.  She  was  so  eager  to  se- 
cure it  when  she  went  back  to  the  agent,  that  they  put  the 
rent  up  five  pounds,  and  made  her  sign  an  agreement, 
there  and  then,  which  left  her  to  pay  for  all  the  improve- 


24o  CONCERT    PITCH 

ments  the  lessor  had  been  ready  to  make.  Always  im- 
pulsive, she  signed  eagerly ;  all  that  seemed  to  matter  was 
that  no  one  else  should  see  the  house,  and  take  it  out  of 
her  hands.  When  she  had  signed  that  most  unfair  agree- 
ment, she  forgot  that  she  had  ever  had  a  trouble  in  the 
world.  Buckingham  Palace  could  have  given  her  no 
more  pleasure.  And  the  rent  was  only  sixty-five  pounds 
a  year ;  two  servants  would  be  enough.  She  had  learnt 
economy  in  the  hardest  school  of  all.  Eight  hundred 
pounds  a  year  was  now  a  fortune  to  her,  and  she  did  not 
mean  to  dissipate  it. 

Harston  disengaged  himself  from  his  libretto  that 
evening  on  the  demand  of  her  excitement.  It  was,  of 
course,  Paradise  that  she  had  discovered,  of  which  she 
had  become  the  proprietor.  He  even  teased  her  about  it, 
and  was  comparatively  human  and  interested. 

Of  course  his  interest  did  not  last  out  the  evening; 
he  soon  got  back  to  Cartismandua  and  Caractacus,  and 
the  entry  of  the  captives  into  Rome.  He  had  found  the 
name  for  the  opera  now,  it  was  to  be  called  //  Traditore. 
And  he  had  come  back  to  Gerald's  way  of  thinking  about 
scenery. 

"  Those  people  who  are  writing  about  producing  The 
Chariot  Queen  want  to  know  exactly  how  I  had  the  set- 
ting in  my  mind;  they  will  perhaps  want  me  to  conduct 
it.  ...  " 

"  Everything  will  be  easy  when  we  get  to  the  new 
house.  It  will  bring  us  luck,  I  feel  it  will,"  Manuella 
answered. 

Gerald  inquired  about  furniture,  and  was  eager  for  her 
to  try  the  three  years'  hire  system,  but  Manuella  felt 
that  in  her  own  home  she  must  have  her  own  furniture. 

"  We  shall  want  so  little.  It  is  a  tiny  house,  all  but  the 
studio.  What  we  have  here  will  go  into  the  studio." 

"  The  less  furniture  there  is  in  a  music-room  the  better 
for  the  acoustics." 

"  As  if  I  didn't  know  that."  She  laughed  at  Gerald 
for  trying  to  teach  her. 

Albert  came  the  next  day.    He  knew  all  about  the  eight 


CONCERT   PITCH  241 

hundred  a  year,  and  took  the  entire  credit  for  it.  He  heard 
about  the  paradise  in  St.  John's  Wood,  and  promised  to 
help  her  to  furnish  it.  He  suggested  Mellier's,  in  Albe- 
marle  Street,  but  Manuella  thought  old  curiosity  shops 
in  and  about  Tottenham  Court  Road  would  be  more 
suitable. 

Albert,  when  he  went  away,  forgot  all  about  his  prom- 
ise ;  he  was  just  off  to  spend  Easter  in  Monte  Carlo.  But 
a  number  of  things  Manuella  had  not  bought  arrived 
from  time  to  time  at  the  new  house,  and  she  never 
doubted  but  that  they  were  from  him.  Someone  must 
evidently  have  been  up  there,  for  everything  fitted  some 
nook  or  recess.  There  came  a  pair  of  easy  chairs  covered 
in  chintz  for  the  little  sitting-room,  a  quaintly-shaped 
sofa  to  match  them,  a  Chinese  vase  made  into  an  electric 
lamp,  and  a  few  prints  and  water-colours.  For  the  bed- 
room there  were  two  bow-fronted  chests  of  drawers, 
matching  the  tallboy  from  Bedford  Square.  Who  but 
Albert  knew  she  had  a  tallboy  in  her  bedroom?  There 
were  rugs  and  a  little  Sheraton  bookcase.  It  was  won- 
derful how  clever  Albert  was  in  knowing  what  she 
wanted ! 

"  Isn't  he  good  ?  "  she  said  to  Gerald. 

She  could  not  write  and  thank  him,  for  he  was  at 
Monte  Carlo,  and  she  did  not  know  at  which  hotel. 

By  May  the  grass  was  cut  in  the  garden.  Harston 
liked  his  big  room,  and  said  there  was  no  doubt  he  could 
write  there.  Two  servants  had  been  secured,  and  every- 
thing was  in  order. 

Gerald  was  to  lodge  with  them ;  Harston  could  not  do 
without  him ;  he  was  always  ready  to  copy  the  growing 
score,  play  the  concerted  pieces. 

Manuella  intended  to  become  an  expert  gardener; 
she  bought  seeds  and  books,  and  was  planting  herbaceous 
borders,  making  a  rock-garden  and  new  flower-beds,  as  if 
she  had  an  acre  to  exploit  instead  of  less  than  a  quarter. 
She  put  in  everything  the  local  florist  sold  her,  and  watched 
daily  for  the  results,  anticipating  the  time  when  the 
bare  pergola  would  be  a  bower  of  roses.  She  was  in  such 


242  CONCERT    PITCH 

a  hurry  with  her  bulbs  that  some  of  them  went  in  upside- 
down.  She  consulted  catalogues,  and  believed  everything 
she  read  in  them.  All  her  beauty  came  back  to  her :  she 
was  flushed  like  one  of  the  damask  roses  that  she  so  opti- 
mistically anticipated  on  her  pergola. 

Before  the  end  of  the  summer  quite  a  number  of  peo- 
ple had  had  tea  in  the  garden,  admired  the  bare  pergola 
and  the  baby,  and  stayed  to  supper  in  the  little  dining- 
room.  Gerald  said  Harston  was  beginning  to  be  known. 
And  all  at  once  it  seemed  to  be  true.  In  Bedford  Square, 
where  there  was  one  room  for  Harston's  work,  and  in 
which  all  their  meals  were  taken,  it  would  have  been 
impossible  to  entertain,  but  here  entertainment  was  easy. 
Gerald  Streatfield  said  earnestly  that  it  was  good  for 
Harston  to  see  people,  to  disseminate  talk  about  his 
work ;  and  Manuella  began  to  find  pleasure  in  exercising 
hospitality.  She  liked  her  suppers  to  be  praised;  she 
began  to  be  house-proud. 

Of  course,  the  majority  of  the  people  who  came  were 
what  Albert  and  his  friends  would  call  "  long-haired 
musicians."  They  treated  Harston  with  respect  and  de- 
ferred to  his  opinion.  Gerald  may  have  set  the  note, 
but  they  easily  were  in  time  with  it.  With  all  the  women 
who  came — young  singers,  aspirants  for  the  stage,  even 
Society  ladies,  it  was  not  necessary  for  Gerald  to  set  the 
note.  Manuella  was  astounded  to  see  how  much  flattery 
Harston  could  bear,  and  not  only  bear,  but  obviously 
enjoy.  He  would  play  to  them,  listen  to  their  bad  sing- 
ing and  tell  them  where  it  was  wrong,  harshly  or  con- 
temptuously. But  his  contempt  for  their  voices  was 
tempered  with  compliments  on  their  complexions.  They 
liked  his  candour,  therefore,  accepting  him  as  a  musical 
Rochester.  He  could  say  what  he  liked. 

Some  of  these  ladies  kissed  his  hands,  and  he  kissed 
theirs  occasionally.  That,  of  course,  was  owing  to  his 
artistic  temperament,  to  which  everything  abnormal  in 
him  was  attributed.  A  good  deal  of  kissing  seemed  to 
be  going  on,  although  Manuella  might  not  have  noticed  it, 
had  Mrs.  Des  Vceux  refrained  from  pointing  it  out. 


CONCERT    PITCH  243 

Mrs.  Des  Voeux  was  the  wife  of  Oscar  Des  Vceux,  the 
well-known  singing-master.  His  most  famous  pupil  was 
his  half-sister,  Madame  Alma  Orilia,  a  young  opera 
singer,  whose  first  appearance  in  England  in  the  previous 
year  had  occasioned  a  veritable  furore. 

Manuella  took  a  dislike  to  Mrs.  Des  Voeux  the  first 
time  she  called  upon  her. 

"  What  on  earth  do  you  find  to  do  with  yourself  all 
day  in  this  out-of-the-world  place?  "  Mrs.  Des  Voeux  had 
queried. 

But  Gerald,  and  even  Harston,  assured  her  that  it  was 
a  testimony  to  his  growing  reputation  that  the  Des 
Vceux  should  call  upon  them  at  all. 

"  Alma  Orilia  will  be  here  this  week  or  next." 

Harston's  fortune  would  be  made,  everything  would  be 
easy,  if  Alma  Orilia  took  a  fancy  to  Harston  Migotti  and 
would  sing  his  music. 

"  For  heaven's  sake  don't  take  a  dislike  to  Mrs.  Des 
Voeux  or  offend  her,"  Gerald  urged. 

Manuella  subordinated  her  feelings,  therefore,  and  put 
up  with  Mrs.  Des  Vceux's  society  in  the  hopes  that,  when 
Alma  Orilia  came  over  to  England,  she  might  be  intro- 
duced to  Harston.  All  of  them  heard  a  great  deal  about 
Alma  Orilia ;  she  was  Mrs.  Des  Vceux's  favourite  topic  of 
conversation. 

"  You  will  have  to  look  after  your  husband,  my  dear, 
if  she  does  take  a  fancy  to  him,"  she  said,  with  that 
short,  hard  laugh  of  hers.  "  Alma  is  a  regular  man-eater ; 
Juan  has  fought  two  duels  already  on  her  account.  He 
will  never  divorce  her,  because  he  is  a  Roman  Catholic." 

"  Or  because  he  is  a  gambler,  and  she  makes  many 
thousands  a  year,"  someone  interpolated  in  an  under- 
tone. 

Mrs.  Des  Vceux  spoke  as  if  to  have  had  lovers  were  a 
feather  in  her  sister-in-law's  cap.  Manuella  hastily  said, 
of  course,  that  she  should  not  look  after  Harston,  and 
Mrs.  Des  Voeux  laughed  again. 

"  We  shall  see.     All  the  wives  say  that  at  first." 

In  June  the  arrival  of  Alma  Orilia  was  announced. 


244  CONCERT    PITCH 

Soon  after  that,  the  Des  Vceux  gave  their  grand  annual 
concert  and  reception  in  Harley  Street.  Alma  Orilia 
was  staying  with  them.  Gerald  brought  home  all  the 
musical  gossip.  She  would  sing  at  Covent  Garden  and 
at  two  concerts — otherwise,  nowhere  but  at  her  brother's 
house  and  perhaps  in  Seaford  Place. 

"  She  is  in  glorious  voice  this  season,  I'm  told ;  better, 
if  possible,  than  last.  The  King  and  Queen  want  to  hear 
her  as  Elsa;  it  has  all  been  arranged." 

The  Migottis  received  an  invitation  to  the  Des  Voeux's 
party,  and  Gerald  looked  upon  it  as  a  royal  command. 
Manuella's  first  instinct  was  to  refuse. 

"  But  you  must  go,"  he  exclaimed.    "  You  must!  " 

"  They  don't  want  me.  They  make  a  fuss  about 
Harston,  but  I'm  sure  they  don't  care  if  I  go  or  not." 

She  was  overruled;  in  these  days  she  was  always 
overruled  in  everything  that  did  not  touch  her  own 
domestic  kingdom. 

Afterwards  it  seemed  that  all  the  rest  had  been  but 
an  interlude;  a  new  phase  of  life  began  for  her  on  the 
evening  of  Mrs.  Des  Voeux's  party.  She  had  thought 
herself  happy  in  her  little  home,  with  her  garden  and  her 
thriving  baby,  having  grown  used  to  Harston  and  her 
detached  attitude  toward  him.  She  had  put  the  past 
deliberately  behind  her,  and  tried  to  be  happy. 

But  there  are  no  happy  endings  to  loveless  marriages. 
She  had  never  loved  Harston  Migotti,  but  had  run  away 
from  love,  as  young  girls  do  sometimes,  and  forced 
her  way  ignorantly,  wilfully,  into  a  shadow-land  where 
duty  became  the  one  bright  star.  She  had  hitched  her 
waggon  to  it,  but  the  couplings  were  not  to  hold  securely, 
nor  without  jar. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

EVERYONE  knows  the  Des  Voeux's  house  in  Harley 
Street.  To-night,  when  Manuella  and  Harston 
Migotti  drove  up  in  their  taxi-cab,  the  string  of  car- 
riages and  motor-cars  was  half-way  up  the  Marylebone 
Road;  it  was  like  a  gala  night  at  the  Opera  House. 

The  hall  was  full,  the  rooms  where  they  left  their  wraps 
were  overcrowded ;  the  stentorian  hired  waiter  called  out 
their  names  between  others  more  important  and  better 
known. 

"  Lady  Christobel  Carruthers  and  Count  Feresties ; 
Miss  Stanton ;  Mr.  Patrick  Stuart.  Her  Grace  the  Duch- 
ess of  Malmesbury,  and  Lady  Violet  Braid,  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Migotti,  the  Countess  of  Chichester.  ..." 

The  ugliness  of  the  large  bare  double  drawing-room, 
with  its  hideous  wall-paper,  was  concealed  by  the  shifting 
figures  and  groups  of  fashionable  people;  attention  was 
distracted  by  the  medley  of  bare  shoulders  and  chains  of 
pearls,  exquisite  coronets,  dresses  from  Paris  ateliers, 
of  soft  lace  and  soft  stuffs  glowing  with  embroideries ; 
jargon  from  May  fair,  long  hair  from  Bohemia,  artificial 
manner  from  Stageland,  foreign  tongues  from  every- 
where. Here  were  the  people  who  rented  opera-boxes, 
and  those  who  made  opera  possible ;  the  great  ladies  who 
took  their  two-guinea  singing  lessons  from  Oscar  des 
Voeux,  and  the  artistes  who  owed  him  everything,  and 

245 


246  CONCERT    PITCH 

paid  him  nothing;  the  great  Russian  dancer,  the  prima- 
donna  of  musical  comedy,  everybody. 

Manuella,  after  the  perfunctory  greeting  from  her 
hostess,  found  herself  only  watching.  She  was  conscious 
of  isolation;  Harston's  friends  were  her  acquaintances, 
the  Stone  House  acquaintances  were  dummy  figures 
bowing ;  she  felt  curiously  alone,  although  she  recognized 
so  many  faces. 

For  a  long  time,  or  it  seemed  a  long  time  to  her,  she 
remained  by  herself.  Harston  had  soon  left  her ;  he  was 
surrounded  by  women,  his  hair  seemed  astonishingly 
long,  and  Manuella,  perhaps  a  little  bitterly,  thought  he 
was  like  Gilbert's  Bunthorne.  She  herself  was  not  flirta- 
tious, but  there  was  no  other  word  that  seemed  to  her  to 
fit  Harston's  manner  with  women.  She  felt  contempt 
for  it,  yet  it  hurt  her  pride  in  some  way,  probably  be- 
cause it  lowered  him  in  her  eyes.  She  always  wished  to 
look  upon  him  as  a  genius,  but  paying  compliments  and 
receiving  extravagant  ones,  bowing  over  hands  and  kiss- 
ing them,  belittled  him.  In  this  attitude  he  was  not 
Wagner,  or  Beethoven,  or  Mozart — only  Bunthorne. 

"  Mr.  Graham  wishes  me  to  present  him  to  you." 

She  was  startled  out  of  her  thoughts,  roused  from 
watching  her  husband,  by  her  hostess,  who  was  in  a 
hurry  to  get  back  to  her  more  important  guests.  More 
important  than  Manuella,  not  than  Peter  Graham;  few 
people  in  the  room  were  more  important  than  he. 

Manuella  Wagner  had  been  accounted  a  beauty  at  her 
first  drawing-room.  In  the  two  years  that  had  passed 
since  then  promise  had  become  fulfilment.  At  eighteen 
she  had  not  come  to  her  full  height ;  now  she  was  tall 
and  slender  as  a  young  ash  tree.  Her  hair  was  not 
fashionably  arranged ;  the  dark  abundance  of  it,  parted 
in  the  middle,  was  twisted  into  a  great  soft  coil  low  down 
on  her  slender  neck.  Her  face  had  little  colour,  but  a 
porcelain  bloom,  a  transparency  behind  which  glowed 
the  white  flame  of  her  contempt  when  Brema  Tietgens, 
who  had  been  in  The  Chariot  Queen,  flopped  to  the 
ground  in  a  curtsey  before  Harston,  and  he  raised  her, 


CONCERT    PITCH  247 

kissed  her  hand,  and  accepted  her  ridiculous  homage. 
The  contempt  burned  darker  in  her  dark  eyes,  the  fire  of 
it  was  caught  in  the  thick,  curled  lashes.  The  bow  of 
her  mouth  was  pomegranate  red.  There  was  no  woman 
at  all  in  that  brilliant  assembly  who  compared  with  her 
in  looks.  So  thought  Peter  Graham  when  he  asked  for 
that  introduction. 

Peter  Graham,  a  bachelor  of  about  forty,  wealthy  and 
reputed  of  Jewish  origin,  was  a  well-known  amateur 
violinist.  He  had  the  reputation  of  being  a  lady-killer; 
he  would  have  repudiated  the  coarseness  of  the  expres- 
sion, but  never  the  innuendo.  Mr.  Graham  lived  in  Hert- 
ford Street,  where  he  possessed  an  unrivalled  collection 
of  old  Italian  stringed  instruments  and  a  music-room 
acoustically  perfect.  He  gave  quartet  and  other  parties  of 
great  distinction.  Chamber  music,  and  his  collection  of 
violins,  held  all  of  his  heart  that  he  could  spare  from  wo- 
men. Without  ever  having  been  in  the  Divorce  Court  it 
was  always  admitted  that  he  was  a  born  co-respondent. 

Peter  Graham  was  of  a  slender  and  elegant  figure, 
bearing  his  forty  odd  years  as  gracefully  as  a  dancer 
carries  a  bouquet ;  there  was  really  an  air  of  chivalry 
about  him.  It  was  true  that  he  was  bald,  extraordinarily 
bald  for  so  young  a  man,  but  the  expanse  of  forehead 
gave  value  to  his  dark  expressive  eyes;  his  dark  mous- 
tache had  grey  in  it  and  he  wore  a  goatee,  now,  too,  get- 
ting grey.  His  thin  skin  was  like  a  woman's.  There  was 
something  of  the  foreigner  in  his  manner,  in  his  elegance, 
in  the  slight  burr  of  his  r's.  But  not  Albert  Wagner,  nor 
any  sartorial  critic,  could  have  questioned  his  clothes. 
His  sleeve  links  were  cut  antique  gems,  a  rare  and  ex- 
quisite intaglio  was  the  ring  that  he  wore  on  the  little 
finger  of  his  slender  hand,  the  buttons  of  his  white  waist- 
coat were  old  enamels.  The  pearls  in  his  shirt  were  quite 
small.  He  had  not,  however,  an  original  mind,  and  after 
Mrs.  Des  Voeux  moved  away  he  played  the  well-known 
opening  gambit. 

"  I  was  saying  to  Mrs.  Des  Voeux  that  I  am  quite  sure 
we  must  have  met  somewhere." 


248  CONCERT   PITCH 

Manuella  could  not  remember  the  occasion,  but  was 
interested  in  trying  to  recall  it.  He  realized  her  ingen- 
uousness, and  it  completed  the  conquest  her  beauty  had 
begun. 

"  If  we  have  not  met  before,  I  shall  hope,  at  least, 
this  will  be  the  first  of  many  times." 

Manuella  hoped  so  too,  she  could  do  no  less.  Other 
banal  courtesies  were  exchanged. 

"  Alma  Orilia  is  here,  isn't  she  ?  Is  she  going  to  sing, 
do  you  know  ?  "  Manuella  asked  him  presently. 

"You  are  interested  in  Alma  Orilia?" 

"  We  want  her  to  hear  my  husband's  music,  to  sing, 
perhaps,  in  his  opera." 

"  His  opera !  "  Peter  Graham  had  not  caught  her 
name,  and  he  connected  her  with  no  husband,  she  looked 
like  a  girl. 

"  Harston  Migotti.  He  wrote  The  Chariot  Queen," 
Manuella  explained. 

"  Oh,  yes,  of  course.  Yes,  she  is  here.  Would  you 
like  me  to  present  her  to  you?  We  are  old  friends." 

"  Not  to  me,  to  my  husband.  But  Mr.  Des  Voeux  will 
do  that,  he  has  promised." 

Peter  Graham  had  a  fine  taste,  the  feast  he  saw  before 
him  tickled  it. 

"  You  sang  the  title  role  in  your  husband's  opera, 
did  you  not?  It  was  unfortunate  I  was  abroad  at  the 
time  it  was  produced.  I  might  have  been  able  to  have 
been  of  some  use  to  you." 

It  was  true  that  he  might  have  been  of  use  to  them. 
Peter  Graham  had  sufficient  wealth  and  influence  to  have 
dressed  the  house  on  the  first  night  with  the  right  people, 
to  have  said  the  right  word  before  the  Press  said  theirs. 
And  neither  O'Neill  nor  Otterstein  would  have  refused 
The  Chariot  Queen  consideration  if  Peter  Graham  had 
endorsed  it. 

"  But  perhaps  it  is  not  too  late  now.  May  I  open  the 
matter  to  Alma  ?  " 

"  But  how  kind !  " 

"  Not  at  all.    I  will  speak  to  her  at  once,  she  will  not 


CONCERT    PITCH  249 

sing  until  later,  until  the  room  is  quite  full.  Which  is 
your  husband  ?  Oh  !  " 

The  exclamation  was  due  to  the  fact  that  Des  Vceux 
was  before  him  with  the  introduction. 

"  That  is  Madame  Orilia  with  Oscar  Des  Vceux ;  I 
suppose  that  is  your  husband  to  whom  he  is  talking 
now  ?  " 

"  Is  she  really  as  good  as  they  say?  " 

"  I  should  say  quite.  Tell  me,  are  you  going  to  sing 
to-night  ?  " 

"  I  have  given  up  singing.  I  have  never  been  trained. 
I  only  sang  because  at  the  last  moment  Madame  Stella 
Lily  threw  them  over,  and  there  was  no  one  else." 

"You  liked  the  life?" 

"  I  hated  it." 

"  You  are  quite  right,  if  I  may  say  so,  if  you  don't 
mind  my  saying  so.  Public  life  for  a  woman,  stage  life, 
brushes  off  the  bloom.  I  knew  without  your  telling  me 
that  you  did  not  like  it." 

"  How  did  you  know  ?  " 

"  I  have  an  instinct."  He  went  on  to  talk  about  his 
instincts,  implying  they  were  rarely  at  fault  where  a 
beautiful  woman  was  concerned. 

"  Will  you  come  down  to  supper  with  me?  " 

Peter  Graham  confessed  to  the  artistic  temperament. 
Already  he  knew  he  was  about  to  fall  in  love,  was 
conscious  of  the  preliminary  thrill,  the  sense  of  ad- 
venture. 

Supper  at  the  Des  Vceux's  party,  like  the  soup  at  the 
famous  dinner-party  Heine  describes,  was  conspicuous 
by  its  absence.  In  the  dining-room,  to  which  he  piloted 
her,  there  were  traces  of  "  light  refreshments  ";  empty 
dishes  that  had  once  held  sandwiches  and  a  few  cakes. 

But,  standing  against  the  buffet,  no  longer  Bunthorne 
but  himself,  was  Harston,  deep  in  conversation  with,  as 
Manuella  quickly  decided,  one  of  the  ugliest  women  she 
had  ever  seen. 

"  Alma,  Madame  Migotti  wishes  to  be  presented  to 
you,"  Peter  Graham  was  eager  to  carry  out  this  beautiful 


250  CONCERT   PITCH 

girl's  first  request.  Manuella  named  Harston  to  him, 
and  Peter  had  the  right  word,  the  appropriate  word. 

Under  her  heavy  lids,  the  great  soprano  looked  at  the 
composer's  wife.  She  knew  all  about  the  composer,  her 
brother  had  told  her,  but  nothing  about  his  wife.  And 
Des  Vceux  had  omitted  to  mention  about  Harston  Mi- 
gotti  that  he  was  of  great  physical  attraction,  astonish- 
ingly handsome. 

"  I  am  so  glad  to  meet  you,"  Manuella  began  im- 
pulsively. But  that  she  and  Alma  Orilia  took  an  im- 
mediate dislike  to  each  other  was  obvious  from  the  first 
moment.  Manuella  wanted  to  say  that  she  had  heard 
of  her  marvellous  voice,  and  was  longing  to  hear  her 
sing,  she  thought  she  would  add  something  about  Hars- 
ton's  music,  and  ask  her  to  come  to  Circus  Road.  But 
she  did  nothing  of  the  sort.  Alma  Orilia  was  never  a 
favourite  with  women,  and  she  looked  at  this  one  almost 
insolently,  responded  coldly,  turning  away  and  continu- 
ing her  conversation  with  the  musician  as  if  the  inter- 
ruption had  been  ill-timed  and  ill-bred.  Harston,  too, 
or  so  it  seemed  to  Manuella,  resented  it. 

"  My  wife  is  unused  to  Society." 

She  actually  heard  him  saying  that  as  she  moved 
away.  Unused  to  Society !  But  why,  and  since  when  ? 
She  flushed,  and  Peter,  who,  whether  or  not  his  knowl- 
edge of  women  was  as  profound  as  he  imagined,  certainly 
understood  Alma,  knew  she  had  administered  a  snub,  and 
looked  curiously  at  Harston. 

'  Your  husband  is  very  good-looking." 

"  So  Madame  Orilia  seems  to  think."  That  she  had 
flushed  angrily,  and  given  vent  to  the  quick  retort,  gave 
him  an  opportunity  to  exhibit  his  tact. 

"  She  is  intolerant  of  feminine  beauty ;  you  ought  to 
feel  flattered." 

"  Oh !  I  don't  care ;  she  can  be  as  rude  to  me  as  she 
likes,  so  long  as  she  will  sing  in  //  Traditore." 

"  I  think  you  may  leave  that  to  me,"  he  said  confi- 
dently. "  And  now,  tell  me  ..." 

He  wanted  to  know  all  about  her,  what  she  did  with 


CONCERT    PITCH  251 

her  life.  She  was  only  half  caught,  although  it  was  so 
long  since  she  had  been  the  objective  of  any  man's  at- 
tractions. She  did  not  even  hear  all  he  said  to  her, 
or  anything  of  what  he  implied.  She  was  conscious  all 
the  time  that  her  husband  never  left  Alma  Orilia's  side, 
and  that  presently,  when  the  singer  mounted  the  platform, 
it  was  he,  and  not  Oscar  Des  Voeux,  who  went  with  her. 

"  He  is  surely  not  going  to  play  her  accompaniment !  " 
she  exclaimed. 

'  Yes,  I  think  your  husband  is  going  to  play  her 
accompaniment.  You  don't  mind,  do  you  ?  I  thought  you 
said.  ..." 

"  Of  course  I  don't  mind,"  Manuella  answered  hastily, 
"  only  it  seems  so  strange." 

Peter  Graham  read  the  symptoms  more  accurately, 
and  certainly  more  quickly,  than  she  read  them  herself. 
She  was  going  to  be  jealous  of  Alma.  What  he  knew 
even  better  was  that  Alma  would  give  her  plenty  of  oc- 
casion for  it.  Alma  was  the  very  devil  if  she  took  it  into 
her  head  to  wish  to  spite  a  woman,  or  take  a  man  from 
her.  Peter  had  the  mind  that  enabled  him  to  read  Alma's, 
and  he  had  read  it  when  he  introduced  them.  Harston 
Migotti  had  attracted  and  Manuella's  good  looks  vexed 
her.  Manuella  would  not  have  thought  it  possible  that 
she  could  be  jealous  of  Harston,  seeing  that  she  had  never 
loved  him,  but  Peter  Graham  knew  better. 

Now  in  the  hush  that  followed  her  appearance  on  the 
platform  Alma  Orilia  stood  silent,  whilst  Harston's  fin- 
gers touched  the  keys.  There  was  a  little  applause  before 
she  began;  he  played  the  opening  prelude  to  the  sound 
of  it. 

Alma  Orilia,  then  almost  at  the  beginning  of  her  ca- 
reer, already  famous,  and,  before  the  end  of  this  story, 
notorious,  was  in  her  twenty-seventh  year,  of  a  superb 
and  sensual  ugliness,  more  compelling  than  beauty.  She 
was  dark,  so  dark  that  it  would  seem  impossible  she  could 
be  of  European  birth.  The  heavy  lids  drooped  over  her 
eyes.  Her  lips  were  full,  cheek-bones  high,  the  bushy 
brows  nearly  met.  Her  bust  was  pronounced,  and  her 


252  CONCERT    PITCH 

neck  thick.  But  under  the  drooping  lids  the  eyes  were 
like  jewels,  the  thick  lips  that  parted  when  she  sang  or 
smiled  showed  white  and  even  teeth. 

"  Madame  Orilia  will  sing  an  A  and  B,"  Oscar  Des 
Vceux  announced  briefly. 

The  A  was  of  extreme  simplicity.  It  was  Spohr's 
arrangement  of  "  Rose  wie  bist  du  so  schon  " ;  the  song 
Richard  Wagner  chronicles  as  having  been  sung  to  him 
by  his  niece  Johanna,  when  she  was  fifteen,  which  led 
him  to  prophesy  her  artistic  future.  For  the  B  she  gave 
the  Elsa  song. 

Manuella,  listening,  spell-bound,  against  her  will,  re- 
membered that  her  own  voice  had  once  been  likened  to 
velvet.  She  realized  now  that,  if  the  analogy  held,  hers 
was  but  a  poor  cotton-backed  variety.  This  rich  singing, 
these  deep,  organ-like  notes  and  fluty  upper  ones  were 
satin  lined  and  silken-fibred,  grandly  woven.  There  was 
absolute  silence  while  Alma  Orilia  sang,  followed  by  a 
tumult  of  applause  and  congratulation.  All  the  duchesses 
and  countesses  wished  for  introductions ;  but  from  every 
introduction  she  turned  to  her  accompanist,  to  Harston ; 
there  seemed  to  be  no  one  else  to  whom  she  cared  to  talk 
for  any  length  of  time.  ^ 

Manuella,  rousing  herself  fredn  what  she  felt  was  an 
unreasoning  irritation  at  the  conspicuousness  of  this  con- 
duct, realized  that  Mr.  Graham  was  asking  her  if  she 
would  dine  with  him  one  night  in  Hertford  Street.  "  You 
and  your  husband.  I  will  get  up  a  small  party,  is  there 
anyone  you  would  care  to  meet?  I  should  so  like  to 
see  you  in  my  house;  I  have  a  few  things  there  that 
might  interest  you." 

She  said  she  would  like  very  much  to  come.  When 
he  had  taken  his  leave,  the  room  was  already  more  than 
half  empty.  The  crux  of  the  entertainment  had  been 
Alma  Orilia's  singing,  and,  when  it  was  over,  it  was 
merely  a  question  as  to  who  could  get  away  first.  Man- 
uella wanted  to  go,  too,  but  Harston  made  no  attempt  at 
leave-taking. 

She  went  over  to  him  and  said : 


CONCERT   PITCH  253 

"  It  is  very  late." 

"  But  we  have  not  nearly  finished  our  talk." 

Alma  Orilia  treated  her  as  if  she  had  been  a  child, 
interrupting  important  affairs.  If  she  did  not  actually 
say,  "  Go  away,"  her  manner  said  it,  and  not  too  cour- 
teously. Manuella  had  not  the  perfect  temper  to  meet 
this  treatment.  She  stood  her  ground.  Mrs.  Des  Voeux 
was  yawning  ostentatiously ;  a  few  artistes  lingered  talk- 
ing to  Oscar. 

"  Harston,  I'm  tired,  I  want  to  go." 

He  rose,  he  could  do  no  less;  he  had  not  noticed  the 
antagonism  between  the  two  women. 

"  But,  of  course,  we  are  very  late.  ..." 

Alma  was  furious  that  Manuella  had  carried  her  point, 
it  was  a  small  thing,  but  the  famous  prima-donna  could 
not  bear  opposition  even  in  small  things. 

"  You  must  call  and  see  me,  we  must  talk  more." 

She  did  not  include  his  wife  in  the  invitation. 

"May  I?" 

His  eagerness  mollified  her;  she  saw,  too,  that  it  an- 
noyed Manuella. 

"  What  a  hateful  woman !  "  was  her  first  sentence 
when  she  and  Harston  were  alone  in  the  cab. 

"  Hateful  ?  You  are  dreaming.  Hateful  ?  I  never 
met  a  more  delightful  person." 

"  I  suppose  she  buttered  you  up  all  the  time." 

"  She  wants  to  see  The  Chariot  Queen  score." 

"  To  kiss  your  hand,  and  call  you  '  Maestro '  !  " 

"  I  don't  know  what  has  come  to  you.  You  are  not 
jealous,  surely  you  are  not  jealous?  " 

Her  pride  mounted,  and  repudiated  the  charge. 

"  Jealous !  She  is  the  ugliest  woman  I've  ever  seen. 
If  I  were  going  to  be  jealous,  it  wouldn't  be  of  that." 

He  laughed,  and  put  an  arm  about  her. 

"  My  little  wife  of  the  hearth ;  but  of  course  you  are 
jealous." 

He  was  in  high  good  humour;  the  whole  evening  he 
had  been  recognized,  flattered,  talked  about,  and  it  was 
almost  certain,  if  suitable  arrangements  could  be  made,  if 


254  CONCERT    PITCH 

she  liked  the  music — and  of  that  he  had  no  doubt — that 
Alma  Orilia  would  create  the  part  of- Queen  Cartisman- 
dua  in  //  Traditore.  He  was  injudicious,  but  ever  since 
she  had  sung  so  badly  in  The  Chariot  Queen,  his  wife 
had  become  inconsiderable  in  his  eyes ;  she  could  take  care 
of  the  house  and  play  with  the  baby. 

"  What  a  Boadicea  she  would  have  made !  But  the 
Cartismandua  music  is  better,  it  is  altogether  a  better 
role.  She  has  a  superb  presence,  the  voice  of  the  century, 
I  should  say  quite  the  voice  of  the  century ;  such  volume, 
such  extraordinary  range,  such  tone,  and  what  amazing 
flexibility  and  expression !  And  she  herself,  she  has 
temperament,  dramatic  power,  intensity.  ..." 

"  Was  Boadicea  a  negress  ?  "  Manuella  asked  flip- 
pantly. "  I  should  think  the  only  thing  Alma  Orilia 
would  play  perfectly,  looking  the  part,  would  be  the  old 
woman  with  the  bandana  in  On  the  Road  to  Mandalay." 

"  So  it  is  true,  the  little  one  is  jealous,"  he  laughed. 
"  But  there  is  no  cause ;  it  is  only  to  hear  her  sing  my 
music  I  go  to  her  to-morrow  morning.  Some  one  must 
sing  my  music." 

"  I  don't  care  who  sings  it  as  long  as  I  don't." 

He  shrugged  his  big  shoulders. 

"  If  you  had  only  never  attempted  it !  " 

"  I  didn't  do  it  to  please  myself." 

He  answered  more  seriously. 

"  That  is  of  the  past ;  of  the  present  is  Alma  Orilia 
and  Queen  Cartismandua.  Already  she  is  interested." 

"  In  you,  not  in  your  music." 

"  That  is  as  it  may  be !  You  think  she  has  fallen  in 
love  with  me  ?  Well !  and  then,  if  it  is  so,  how  good 
it  would  be !  She  would  not  be  the  first  ..." 

"  Me!    I  suppose  you  mean." 

"  I  mean  nothing,  nothing  but  that  if  I  interest  her 
she  will  sing  in  my  opera." 

Manuella  turned  a  disgusted  shoulder  to  him,  remain- 
ing obstinately  silent  to  his  eulogies  of  Alma  Orilia.  It 
was  obvious  the  prima-donna  had  flattered  his  vanity.  In 
return,  he  credited  her  with  capacities  and  intentions, 


CONCERT    PITCH  255 

a  range  of  parts  beyond  any  woman's  possibilities.  She 
had  got  into  his  head  like  wine. 

"  How  can  you  say  she  is  ugly !  With  those  eyes  in 
which  you  see  emotions  rise,  that  superb  throat  from 
which  the  voice  gushes  like  clear  water  from  a  well.  .  .  ." 

When,  at  length,  the  cab  stopped  before  their  door,  he 
got  out  before  she  did.  He  had  been  brought  up  in 
Germany,  where  little  attentions  and  courtesies  to  women 
are  no  part  of  a  man's  daily  life.  She  followed  him, 
thinking  that,  if  he  had  been  Mr.  Graham,  he  would  have 
waited  for  her,  and  paid  the  cab  instead  of  leaving  her 
to  do  it.  She  was  loyal  to  him ;  she  had  surely  kept  her 
vows  and  made  him  a  good  wife,  but  the  time  had  passed 
when  she  would  not  criticize  him. 

He  went  straight  to  the  music-room  without  waiting  to 
say  more  to  her — even  "Good-night";  she  heard  him 
playing  far  into  the  small  hours. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

THE  next  few  days  Harston  was  rarely  at  home,  and, 
when  he  was,  he  talked  continually  about  Alma 
Orilia.  Manuella  found  herself  in  a  perpetual  ill-temper, 
which  Gerald's  enthusiasm  was  quite  unable  to  assuage. 

She  was  in  the  garden  when  Albert's  letter  was  brought 
to  her.  Her  bad  temper  had  made  her  oblivious  of  the 
fact  that  it  was  ten  days  since  she  had  seen  or  heard 
anything  of  Albert,  who  was  usually  a  constant  visitor. 
All  the  morning  she  had  been  rolling  the  little  lawn,  and 
unnecessarily  weeding  the  flower-beds,  tying  up  the  tall, 
flowerless  stalks  of  that  elusive  herbaceous  border,  syring- 
ing the  roses  against  the  green-fly  that  had  not  yet  made 
its  appearance.  Manuella,  so  far,  had  not  found'  floricul- 
ture as  easy  as  housewifery,  but  she  was  very  persevering. 

Albert's  letter  changed  the  current  of  her  thoughts. 
For  some  reason  or  another,  probably  at  Lord  Lyssons' 
instigation,  he  had  never  mentioned  Waldo's  name  to  her ; 
she  did  not  even  know  he  had  returned  to  England.  All 
the  colour  left  her  face  when  she  read  Albert's  letter,  but 
is  was  not  on  Albert's  account;  she  hardly  took  in  the 
sense  of  what  he  wrote,  she  was  so  startled  at  seeing 
Waldo's  name  on  the  page. 

"  I  am  off  to  South  Africa,  rather  in  a  hurry.  Waldo 
advises  it;  you  remember  Lord  Lyssons?  Whatever 
has  happened  wasn't  my  fault,  I  was  driven  into  it. 

256 


CONCERT   PITCH  257 

If  you  want  a  pal  whilst  I'm  away,  write  Lyssons ;  he's  a 
real  good  sort,  I  find ;  anyway,  he's  done  me  a  good  turn 
now.  He  will  tell  you  all  about  it.  ...  " 

It  was  startling,  incomprehensible.  Waldo!  he  was 
back  in  England,  then !  She  was  to  see  him,  write  to 
him !  The  ground  of  that  little  garden  seemed  uneven ; 
it  appeared  to  rise  and  be  unstable  beneath  her  feet.  Her 
lips  trembled;  she  put  down  the  gardening  tools,  and 
went  into  the  house.  Waldo ! 

Harston  and  Alma  Orilia,  Mr.  Peter  Graham,  from 
whom  she  had  had  an  invitation,  roses,  even  a  visit,  ceased 
to  exist.  She  had  put  the  thought  of  Waldo  so  resolutely 
from  her  mind.  At  first  it  had  been  difficult,  almost 
more  than  difficult ;  he  came  to  her  in  dreams,  in  wake- 
ful hours,  when  she  was  most  unhappy,  when  she  was 
a  little  happier.  The  work  of  the  flat,  the  adventure  of 
the  theatre,  the  birth  of  the  baby,  however,  had  helped 
her  to  forget.  But  Albert's  letter  brought  it  all  back — 
the  dull,  aching  pain  of  it,  the  memory  and  the  knowl- 
edge. She  had  thought  she  would  never  see  him  again 
nor  hear  of  him ;  she  had  even  hoped  it. 

"What  shall  I  do?"  That  was  the  cry  of  her  heart; 
she  had  a  sickness  of  longing  for  him,  a  moment  of  for- 
getfulness  of  everything  else. 

Of  course,  when  she  had  time  to  collect  herself,  she 
knew  she  would  do  nothing.  But,  after  that,  all  the  quiet 
of  her  life  seemed  to  have  gone.  The  knowledge  that  he 
was  in  London  haunted  her ;  everything  was  altered 
although  nothing  had  changed. 

Alma  Orilia's  triumph  over  her,  had  the  prima-donna 
but  known  it,  became  a  very  poor  and  tawdry  thing. 
Alma  imagined  her  as  a  rival,  thought  the  two  of  them 
were  contending  for  Harston  Migotti's  affections ;  took 
pains  to  let  her  know  that  Harston  spent  his  mornings 
with  her,  and  the  evenings  too,  when  she  was  not  singing 
at  Covent  Garden.  She  was  really  succeeding  with  him, 
establishing  an  influence,  but  what  she  wanted  was  that 
his  wife  should  know  it.  Manuella  did  know  it  but, 


258  CONCERT    PITCH 

after  Albert's  letter  came,  and  she  knew  that  Lord 
Lyssons  was  in  London,  she  ceased  to  care;  at  least,  it 
became  of  little  importance. 

Gerald,  taking  quick  advantage  of  her  change  of  mood, 
reminded  her  she  owed  Mrs.  Des  Voeux  a  visit,  and  was 
not  justified  in  omitting  it  because  Alma  Orilia  was 
staying  there. 

Gerald's  note-book  was  accumulating  new  material. 
If  there  should  be  an  intrigue  between  Harston  and  the 
prima-donna,  it  would  be  of  immense  value  to  the  bio- 
graphy. He  wished  he  could  have  discussed  it  with 
Manuella ;  he  knew  that  almost  everyone  was  talking  of 
their  sudden  intimacy.  Gerald  was  eager  for  more  detail, 
and  wished  to  probe  his  hero's  mind.  Harston  only  spoke 
of  Alma  Orilia  as  an  artiste,  a  superb  artiste.  Gerald 
wanted  to  know  more. 

Although  social  convention  was  regarded  less  in  this 
Bohemian  world  than  at  Stone  House,  Gerald  argued  that 
there  were  certain  obligations  necessary  to  fulfill. 

"  I  don't  want  to  meet  that  woman." 

"  It  is  very  unlikely  she  will  be  at  home." 

Gerald  would  have  appreciated  her  confidence,  but 
failed  in  obtaining  it.  He  could  not  have  conceived  how 
little  Harston's  vagaries  possessed  Manuella  just  now. 
Somewhere,  some  day,  she  would  meet  Waldo;  it  might 
even  be  to-day !  Her  dislike  of  Alma  Orilia  became  per- 
functory, occupying  the  back  instead  of  the  foreground  of 
her  mind. 

She  went  to  pay  that  visit  to  the  Des  Voeux,  walking 
from  Circus  Road  to  Harley  Street,  and  all  the  way  her 
mind  was  full  of  the  possibility  that  she  might  meet 
Waldo ;  every  tall  figure  in  the  distance,  or  on  the  other 
side  of  the  road,  set  her  heart  beating,  or  brought  the 
colour  into  her  cheeks.  She  arrived  at  Harley  Street, 
however,  without  adventure.  She  hoped  to  escape  with 
the  mere  formality  of  card-leaving,  but  happened,  unfor- 
tunately, upon  Mrs.  Des  Voeux's  "  At  Home  "  day,  and 
was  following  her  name  into  the  drawing-room  before 
she  had  time  to  realize  it. 


CONCERT    PITCH  259 

Seen  by  daylight,  and  without  the  large  company  that 
had  mitigated,  without  disguising,  its  essential  ugliness, 
this  large  modernized  house,  ill-thought  out,  slovenly  in 
its  lack  of  decorative  scheme,  furnished  too  cheaply  for 
its  size,  bare  of  beautiful  things,  gave  her  a  preliminary 
chill.  The  carpet  on  the  staircase  was  Brussels,  of  a 
design  that  but  served  to  accentuate  its  crude  colouring ; 
the  walls  were  papered  with  an  abomination  of  terra- 
cotta chrysanthemums  above  a  white  painted  dado. 

The  drawing-room  carpet  repeated  the  atrocities  of  the 
staircase.  An  even  worse  portrait  of  Oscar  Des  Vceux 
than  the  one  in  the  dining  room  hung  over  the  mantel- 
piece, on  which  were  also  an  ormolu  clock  under  a  glass 
shade,  two  light  brown,  possibly  bronze,  figures,  holding 
up  candelabra  that  could  only  have  come  from  Vienna, 
and  two  yellow  cats,  hideously  misshapen,  in  bastard 
china,  presumably  Japanese. 

There  were  several  people  in  the  room  to  whom  the 
advent  of  a  new  victim  appeared  as  a  relief.  One  or  two 
got  up  to  go  at  once,  and  whilst  they  were  saying  their 
farewells,  Manuella  had  time  to  wonder  why  she  had 
come,  and  to  wish  she  had  been  less  punctilious. 

Her  hostess  greeted  her  civilly.  Having  secured 
Harston  Migotti  as  an  intimate  habitue  of  the  house,  it 
was  unnecessary  to  pay  much  attention  to  his  wife.  Alma 
Orilia,  gorgeously  arrayed  in  the  bright  colours  she 
affected,  resented  the  visit,  and  the  girl's  self-possession, 
and  showed  it  in  her  own  way. 

"  I  saw  your  husband  this  morning.  He  did  not  say 
you  were  calling." 

"  Probably  he  didn't  know." 

"  You  do  not  tell  each  other  everything.    Hem?" 

Manuella  laughed.  She  had  left  off  being  out  of 
temper,  and  now  thought  it  impossible  Harston  could  be 
attracted  by  this  ugly  woman. 

"  Oh,  yes,  we  do,  everything  of  importance." 

"  How  ?  Everything  of  importance !  It  is  not  im- 
portant, then,  that  you  come  to  see  me  ?  " 

She  was  already  red  with  anger.     It  was  insufferable 


26o  CONCERT    PITCH 

that  this  wife  of  Harston  Migotti  should  not  resent  that 
her  husband  was  with  her  so  constantly.  Mrs.  Des  Vceux 
dashed  into  the  conversation  with  her  shrill  laugh. 

"  If  Oscar  paid  as  much  attention  to  any  woman  as 
your  husband  pays  to  Alma,  I  should  be  simply  mad 
with  jealousy.  He  is  never  out  of  the  house." 

A  diversion  was  made  by  the  entry  of  two  new  guests. 

"  Mrs.  Straus.    Mrs.  Warner." 

If  they  had  been  announced  even  five  minutes  later 
Manuella  might  have  escaped;  but,  as  it  was,  she  kept 
her  seat  reluctantly. 

"  We  had  such  a  charming  evening  at  your  house  last 
week,"  chorussed  Mrs.  Straus  and  Mrs.  Warner,  two 
ill-dressed  ladies  from  some  suburb  that  made  them  incon- 
siderable. Mrs.  Des  Vceux  smiled  abstractedly,  gave  a 
limp  hand,  and  said : 

"  Oh,  yes,"  as  if  she  were  tired  of  admitting  it.  Bait- 
ing Manuella  was  more  to  her  taste  than  entertaining 
them. 

"  Mrs.  Russell  Marston." 

A  streak  of  vivid  personality,  with  black  eyes,  black 
hair,  and  foreign  accent,  hung  with  pearls,  picturesquely 
dressed,  made  a  diversion,  filling  the  room  with  scent 
and  an  overpowering  good-nature.  She  was  kissing 
Alma,  greeting  everybody,  accepting  tea,  before  Manuella 
had  time  to  wonder  who  she  was. 

"  You  are  the  wife  of  Harston  Migotti  ?  "  she  said  to 
Manuella.  "  You  know  Russell  is  delighted  with  his 
suite." 

Russell  Marston  was  a  great  conductor,  the  greatest, 
perhaps,  since  Richter.  Manuella  had  not  even  known 
Harston  had  submitted  him  a  suite.  "  He  is  so  glad  you 
are  going  to  sing  the  Boadicea  song  at  the  concert,"  she 
went  on,  to  Alma. 

"  The  Boadicea  song !  " 

Manuella  could  not  refrain  from  the  exclamation,  or 
the  sudden  flush  of  heightened  colour. 

Mrs.  Des  Vceux  said  ill-naturedly,  with  an  assumption 
of  carelessness : 


CONCERT    PITCH  261 

"  I  don't  think  Mrs.  Migotti  has  heard  Alma  is  singing 
the  Invocation  song  at  Albert  Hall." 

"  You  do  not  tell  each  other  everything,"  interpolated 
Alma,  with  a  smile  of  indescribable  malice. 

"  It  is  your  song,  is  it  not  ?  You  sang  it  when  The 
Chariot  Queen  was  produced?"  Lulu  Marston  asked. 
She  took  in  quickly  that  there  were  undercurrents  here, 
that  there  was  antagonism,  and  she  wished  to  assuage  it. 

"  From  what  I  have  heard,  I  should  not  say  she  sang 
it,"  Alma  Orilia  said,  with  another  laugh. 

"  But,  my  dear,  we  have  not  all  your  wonderful  voice." 

"  I  sang  it  because  there  was  no  one  else,"  Manuella 
said  simply,  rising  to  go.  This  singer,  whatever  Harston 
might  say,  was  an  ill-bred  woman,  objectionable  in  every 
way.  She  was  welcome  to  sing  the  song,  or  any  other; 
but  it  was  unnecessary  to  stay  and  be  insulted  by  her. 

"  I  don't  suppose  you  will  go  to  the  concert,"  Mrs.  Des 
Vceux  said,  as  she  said  good-bye  to  her.  "  I  should  not, 
if  I  were  you.  ..." 

"  Oh !  I  shall  go  if  I  get  a  seat,"  she  said  carelessly. 
"  My  husband  is  sure  to  want  me  to  be  there,"  she  added, 
resenting  the  attitude  of  both  women,  but  holding  her 
head  high,  and  showing  little  sign  of  it. 

"  Would  you  care  to  come  to  my  box  ?  "  Mrs.  Marston 
asked.  She  did  not  understand  exactly  what  was  going 
on,  but  was  the  most  good-hearted,  good-natured  of 
erratic  women,  and  had  none  of  the  littlenesses  of  her 
sex.  "If  you  have  not  a  seat,  will  you  come  to  my  box? 
I  can  call  for  you  in  the  motor,  if  you  like,  or  send  it  for 
you.  Where  is  it  you  live?" 

"  I  really  shouldn't  go,"  Mrs.  Des  Vceux  said,  with 
emphasis.  "  You  will  hate  to  hear  the  Boadicea  song 
sung  by  anyone  else.  ..." 

"  Thank  you,  I  should  like  it  very  much,"  Manuella 
answered,  without  heeding  the  advice.  "  I  live  in  the 
Circus  Road.  Don't  bother  to  send  for  me,  only  give  me 
the  number  of  the  box." 

"  Twenty-seven.  But  it  is  no  bother."  Lulu  Marston 
was  almost  as  impulsive  as  Manuella ;  she  took  a  sudden 


262  CONCERT    PITCH 

fancy  to  the  girl.  She  could  afford  to  admire  another 
woman's  beauty,  having  sufficient  of  her  own. 

Mrs.  Straus  and  Mrs.  Warner,  having  been  ignored 
long  enough,  made  their  adieux  and  went  out  with 
Manuella.  Directly  they  went,  Alma  and  Mrs.  Des  Voeux 
began  to  talk  at  once  to  Lulu  Marston  about  the  airs  the 
composer's  wife  gave  herself,  and  her  bad  manners. 

Peter  Graham  had  imprudently  admired  Manuella  to 
Mrs.  Des  Vceux ;  Alma  had  her  own  reason  for  disliking 
her.  Neither  of  them  had  a  good  word  for  the  girl,  and 
Lulu  found  it  difficult  to  defend  her  on  so  insufficient  an 
acquaintance,  although  she  neither  altered  her  opinion  nor 
forgot  the  promise. 

Manuella  upbraided  Harston,  when  she  got  home,  for 
concealing  from  her  that  Alma  Orilia  would  sing  the 
"  Invocation  "  song  at  the  Albert  Hall  concert,  and  that 
he  had  sent  Russell  Marston  a  suite  for  the  orchestra. 
Harston  found  it  difficult  to  explain  his  silence.  Gerald 
tried  to  throw  oil  upon  the  troubled  waters.  He,  too,  it 
appeared,  had  known  about  it. 

"  He  thought  you  might  be  hurt." 

"  Yes ;  that  is  what  I  thought,  that  you  would  be 
hurt." 

"  You  didn't  suppose  I  should  be  less  hurt  hearing  it 
from  her  than  from  you." 

"  I  had  no  idea  you  were  going  there  to-day." 

"  So  she  told  me." 

Harston  had  to  acknowledge  that  Alma  had  asked  him 
to  keep  it  from  his  wife's  knowledge. 

"  You  see,  the  idea  is  that,  if  she  makes  a  success  with 
the  song,  she  will  be  more  ready  to  create  the  role  of 
Cartismandua  in  //  Traditore.  You  know  how  important 
that  would  be,"  Gerald  urged. 

But  now  Manuella  resented  his  interference  between 
her  and  her  husband.  Before  the  day  of  the  concert  there 
were  several  little  scenes.  Gerald  was  so  sympathetic 
toward  both  of  them,  so  curious  and  communicative,  that 
he  got  upon  her  nerves.  To  get  rid  of  him  became 
urgent,  imperative. 


CONCERT    PITCH  263 

"  Baby  ought  to  have  a  day  as  well  as  a  night  nursery ; 
the  house  is  small,  I  should  like  it  to  myself." 

She  did  not  say  exactly  this,  but  practically  that  was 
what  it  amounted  to.  When  a  man,  not  without  a  con- 
science, and  even  a  heart,  is  deceiving  his  wife,  he  is  quick 
to  do  her  small  favours.  He  made  a  slight  objection. 

"  But  Gerald  is  so  useful  to  me.  ..." 

"  You  are  so  seldom  at  home,"  was  the  quick  retort. 

Gerald  went  back  to  the  rooms  in  Bedford  Square, 
and  gave  Harston  an  additional  reason  for  continual  ab- 
sences. 

She  had  expected  to  hear  again  from  Albert,  but  no 
letter  came.  When  the  days  went  by,  and  she  heard 
from  neither  him  nor  Waldo,  she  had  an  unreasonable 
anger  against  Lord  Lyssons.  He  ought  to  have  come  or 
written;  he  might  have  known  she  would  be  anxious 
about  Albert. 

She  was  very  restless,  and,  it  must  be  confessed,  a  little 
quarrelsome.  She  felt  Harston  was  keeping  things  back 
from  her,  intriguing  against  her  with  Alma  Orilia.  She 
could  not  forgive  herself  for  caring  so  little,  and  resenting 
it  so  much.  Peace  fled  from  that  little  house ;  there  were 
scenes  and  recriminations.  It  was  worse,  not  better,  when 
Gerald  had  gone. 

"  You  will  not  make  a  scene  at  the  concert?  "  Harston 
asked  her. 

"  That  depends  how  I  feel.  I  shall  do  just  as  I  like," 
she  answered. 

It  was  obvious  he  was  ill  at  ease ;  he  had  been  amazed 
at  her  exhibitions  of  temper,  and  was  now  half  afraid  of 
her.  His  conscience  was  not  clear,  but  his  work  was  not 
suffering,  because  it  was  practically  complete.  The  score 
of  //  Traditore  was  in  the  printer's  hands.  He  knew  it 
depended  upon  himself  whether  Alma  Orilia  created  the 
title  role  or  not ;  she  made  little  secret  of  his  attraction 
for  her.  Notwithstanding  all  her  gifts  she  was  a  mere 
animal  of  a  woman. 

He  went  off  early  on  the  day  of  the  concert,  unable  to 
obtain  any  assurance  from  his  wife.  He  could  only  report 


264  CONCERT    PITCH 

to  Alma,  who  was  full  of  interest,  that  he  did  not  know 
what  she  would  do;  she  was  quite  unaccountable. 

True  to  her  promise,  Mrs.  Russell  Marston  called  in 
her  motor  for  Manuella,  and  Manuella  had  no  hesitation 
in  going.  She  had  not  the  remotest  intention  of  making 
any  scene.  Mrs.  Russell  Marston,  whose  own  story  will 
be  written  one  day,  wore  beneath  the  most  elaborate 
toilettes  one  of  the  warmest  of  human  hearts.  Behind 
the  plumed  and  extravagant  hats  that  no  one  but 
herself  could  have  worn  so  successfully,  but  that  suited 
her  exotic  beauty  so  well,  was  a  fine  and  rare  under- 
standing. She  knew  all  about  Manuella  and  Alma  Orilia 
now,  and  all  her  sympathy  was  with  the  girl.  Musical 
London  was  talking  about  Harston  Migotti  and  Alma 
Orilia.  It  was  rumoured  that  Juan  Orilia  was  on  his 
way  to  England.  Lulu  thought  it  would  be  good  that 
Manuella  should  show  by  her  presence  at  the  concert  that 
the  stories  afloat  had  little  foundation. 

In  the  motor  she  questioned  Manuella,  but  in  a  way  that 
could  not  hurt  her  feelings. 

"  You  wanted  to  hear  her,  did  you  not  ?  You  will  be 
glad  if  she  does  justice  to  your  husband's  great  music. 
Russell  is  delighted  with  it;  he  thinks  she  is  going  to 
make  a  big  success  with  the  song.  I  want  you  to 
applaud." 

"  I  shall  applaud  if  she  sings  well.  It  was  good  of  you 
to  invite  me.  Do  people  think  I  mind  her  singing  the 
song  because  I  sang  it  so  badly  myself?  It  isn't  my 
song,  as  she  says;  it  is  Harston's.  It  put  me  in  such 
a  rage  that  Harston  or  anyone  should  think  I  could  be 
jealous." 

"  I  know,"  Lulu  said  soothingly.  "  I  know ;  I  want 
you  to  sit  well  in  front,  to  be  among  the  first  to  applaud." 
She  took  Manuella's  hand,  pressed  it  in  her  impulsive 
way.  "  You  must  come  and  dine  with  me  one  day, 
Russell  wants  to  meet  you.  Don't  mind  what  anybody 
says." 

They  were  early  in  arriving  at  the  Albert  Hall,  but 
already  the  house  was  very  full. 


CONCERT    PITCH  265 

"  Russell  will  be  pleased,  he  hates  an  empty  house." 

"  He  won't  have  that  to-day." 

The  box  was  a  large  one  and  Lulu  had  the  habit  of 
entertaining  her  friends  there.  Among  almost  the  first 
to  arrive  was  Mr.  Peter  Graham.  He  had  sent  Manuella 
roses,  and  she  and  Harston  were  dining  with  him  the 
next  day. 

Peter  had  arrived  at  an  age  when  his  emotions  were  his 
servants,  and  not  his  masters.  His  first  and  most 
empresse  greetings  were  for  Lulu,  but,  when  he  sat  down, 
it  was  beside  Manuella. 

Other  men  crowded  into  the  box.  Lulu  Marston  was 
one  of  the  most  popular  women  in  London.  She  enjoyed 
the  perpetual  devotion  she  received,  and  never  over- 
rated its  quality.  She  could  play  the  greatest  pastmaster 
in  flirtation  to  a  standstill  at  his  own  game,  and,  never 
granting  the  last  favour,  could  afford  to  be  liberal  with 
smaller  ones.  Under  cover  of  Lulu's  talk,  Peter  spoke 
low  to  Manuella.  She  thanked  him  for  the  flowers  he  had 
sent  her.  She  had  the  most  curious  sense  of  expectation, 
as  if  it  were  drama  at  which  she  was  assisting.  Mr. 
Graham  filled  up  the  interval,  he  interested  her  no  more 
than  that.  She  had  no  idea  she  was  being  honoured  by 
his  attentions,  that  Lulu  was  stage-managing  it.  Harston 
Migotti  could  not  neglect  nor  ignore  his  wife  when  she 
was  under  her  protection  and  Peter  Graham  was  in 
attendance.  Lulu  believed  Peter  was  playing  her  game ; 
she  had  no  idea  she  was  playing  his  when  she  asked  him 
to  come  this  afternoon.  She  thought  Peter  Graham 
was  devoted  to  her.  He  was,  but  had  been  only  awaiting 
the  opportunity  to  see  Manuella  again.  Now  he  talked 
to  her  in  a  low  voice,  and  she  heeded  him  as  little  as  one 
heeds  a  curtain-raiser.  And  yet  she  had  no  idea  what  her 
expectancy  portended. 

The  tuning  of  instruments,  the  rustle  of  music-sheets 
was  over,  the  audience  waiting.  Then  appeared  the  con- 
ductor. If  Lulu  Marston  was  a  streak  of  vivid  person- 
ality, what  is  to  be  said  of  Russell  ?  He  was  electric ;  a 
breath  went  through  the  house  when  he  raised  his  baton, 


266  CONCERT    PITCH 

a  breath  that  seemed  not  to  expire  until  he  laid  his 
baton  down  again  after  the  first  number  had  been  played, 
faced  the  audience,  bowed,  and  smiled.  He  did  not 
conduct  the  orchestra,  he  played  with  it,  all  the  strings 
were  in  his  hands,  the  souls  of  the  musicians  and  the 
hearts  of  the  audience  were  his  instruments,  and  he 
drew  from  them  exquisite  harmony.  When  it  was  over, 
Manuella  turned  to  Lulu,  her  eyes  glowing. 

"  How  wonderful  he  is !  " 

"  Is  this  the  first  time  you  have  heard  Russell  con- 
duct?" 

Peter  Graham  had  not  spoken ;  he  had  been  quite  con- 
tent to  lean  back  and  watch  her  whilst  she  listened. 
Contour  and  colour  were  equally  satisfying.  He  had 
wanted  to  see  her  in  the  daylight,  and  found  she  gained 
rather  than  lost  by  it ;  her  eyes  and  lashes  were  glorious, 
the  thin  red  curve  of  her  vibrant  mouth  gave  impetus  to 
his  imagination. 

Perhaps  if  he  had  not  been  gazing  at  her  just  in  that 
way,  Lord  Lyssons  would  again  have  put  off  his  ap- 
proach. Ever  since  Albert  went  away  hurriedly,  at  his 
instigation,  he  had  meant  to  see  Manuella,  to  explain  the 
circumstance.  But  he  knew  he  would  find  it  difficult  to 
betray  no  feeling  at  their  first  meeting;  so  he  procrasti- 
nated, hoping  some  accident  would  bring  it  about.  He 
went  wherever  he  thought  she  might  go.  When  he  saw 
the  announcement  that  Alma  Orilia  would  sing  the  song 
from  The  Chariot  Queen,  he  got  a  seat  for  the  concert, 
although  music  had  always  been  a  dead  language  to  him, 
and,  since  she  had  married  Migotti,  it  was  not  only  dead, 
but  decayed,  and  stank  in  his  nostrils. 

He  saw  Manuella  come  into  the  house,  and  kept  his 
seat,  watching,  nevertheless,  and  in  two  minds  as  to 
whether  he  should  go  to  her.  But,  when  he  noticed  that 
Peter  Graham  watched  her  too,  and  the  manner  of  his 
regard,  he  got  up  abruptly. 

Manuella  had  gone  out  day  after  day  expecting  to  meet 
him ;  she  would  look  at  every  tall  figure,  feel  the  colour 
rising  in  her  cheeks,  her  heart  leaping,  look  away,  and 


CONCERT    PITCH  267 

then  again,  to  find  only  disappointment.  But  to-day 
she  did  not  expect  to  meet  him,  certainly  not  at  the 
Albert  Hall.  Her  heart  nearly  stopped  when  she  heard 
his  voice ;  then  it  raced  on.  No  one  else  knew  him. 

"  May  I  intrude  ?  " 

"  Come  in."  Lulu  welcomed  him,  but  Manuella  was 
rigid  in  her  seat,  presenting  an  obstinate  back. 

"  I  thought  I  recognized.  ..."  there  was  a  slight  hesi- 
tation. ..."  Madame  Migotti." 

"  She  is  here.     Manuella.  ..." 

She  had  to  turn  round  then,  but  could  not  command 
her  voice  to  speak,  so  she  only  bowed.  And  he  was 
little  less  formal.  Lulu's  quick  eyes  saw  beneath  the 
greeting. 

"  Won't  you  sit  down?  I  am  sure  Mr.  Graham  doesn't 
want  to  sit  out  the  '  Eroica,'  he  must  know  every  note 
of  it.  Mr.  Graham.  ..."  She  waited  for  Manuella 
to  name  the  new-comer. 

"  Lord  Lyssons." 

Waldo  took  Peter's  gracefully-vacated  chair.  Russell's 
baton  was  again  uplifted.  In  this  box,  at  least,  no  one 
would  speak  until  the  next  piece  was  over. 

Waldo  sat  through  Beethoven's  glorious  symphony 
without  moving.  Manuella,  in  a  chaos  of  emotion,  was 
super-conscious  of  him.  Not  all  Russell  Marston's  elec- 
tricity or  magnetism  held  her  now.  It  seemed  the 
longest  piece  to  which  she  had  ever  listened;  but,  when 
it  was  over,  it  was  as  if  it  had  only  just  begun.  Still  she 
could  not  turn  round.  Then  Waldo  said,  quite  easily, 
she  thought,  and  with  the  old  flippancy : 

"  It  is  so  difficult  to  talk  to  your  back." 

When  she  faced  him,  although  she  was  pale,  he 
said: 

'  That's  better.  Don't  you  want  to  hear  about  Albert  ?" 

'  You  might  have  let  me  know  before." 

'  So  I  might." 

'  Why  didn't  you  ?  " 

'  I  wonder." 

Their  eyes  met,  and  the  blood  rose  in  her  cheeks ;  his 


268  CONCERT    PITCH 

glass  dropped  out,  and  he  had  difficulty  in  replacing  it. 

"  May  I  have  my  seat  back  ?  The  next  is  the  great 
song." 

Peter  had  the  air  of  a  man  of  the  world,  the  pleasant 
smile.  Lord  Lyssons  yielded  his  place  to  him,  stand- 
ing up  at  the  back  of  the  box,  however.  As  he  was 
here,  he  thought  he  might  stay,  he  must  have  another 
word  with  her. 

The  great  moment  had  arrived,  the  moment  when 
Alma  Orilia  was  to  sing  the  "  Invocation  "  song  from 
The  Chariot  Queen,  and  Manuella  was  to  show  she  was 
not  jealous,  to  lean  forward  and  applaud.  It  seemed 
inconceivably  unimportant.  At  first,  until  after  the  second 
verse  had  begun,  she  heard  nothing,  nothing  but  her  own 
loud  heart-beats;  she  was  conscious  of  nothing  but  her 
fears  lest  Waldo,  too,  should  hear  them. 

But  the  rest  of  the  audience  was  more  alive  to  the 
occasion. 

Alma  Orilia  was  as  ill-dressed  as  most  singers  at  after- 
noon concerts.  She  wore  red  silk,  and  the  amplitude 
of  her  bust  was  accentuated  by  the  badly-disposed  lace 
with  which  the  bodice  was  trimmed.  Her  hat  was  large, 
a  lace  brim  shading  her  face;  a  big  bird  of  paradise 
perched  upon  the  side  jarred  upon  the  taste.  She  was  so 
dark  that  it  was  difficult  to  believe  she  was  of  European 
blood.  Amongst  the  audience  who  had  no  prejudice 
against  paradise  wings  were  men — and  women,  too — to 
whom  even  a  suspicion  of  black  blood  is  prejudicial  to 
sympathy.  Yet  the  first  words  of  the  first  verse  had  not 
swung  into  the  air  before  those  who  disliked  dead  birds 
as  ornaments,  and  those  who  were  prejudiced  against 
the  coloured  races,  were  oblivious  of  both. 

The  song  is  now,  of  course,  hackneyed,  too  well-known 
to  need  description,  but  the  effect  of  it  that  afternoon, 
heard  for  the  first  time  with  the  accompaniment,  of  a 
really  fine  orchestra,  Russell  Marston  conducting,  Alma 
Orilia  singing,  was  little  short  of  wonderful.  These 
Sunday  concert  audiences  are  genuine  musical  connois- 
seurs, musical  enthusiasts,  but,  above  all  things,  musical 


CONCERT   PITCH  269 

critics,  difficult  to  move,  not  given  to  tumultuous 
applause;  captious  rather,  and  with  classical  cultivated 
taste,  perhaps  a  little  narrow.  This  was  difficult  music, 
torn  from  its  context.  But  a  difficulty  to  Russell  Marston 
was  always  an  inspiration.  He  was  more  than  electrical, 
he  was  inspired.  The  great  voice  rolled,  and  the  orchestra 
swayed  with  it,  rising  and  falling. 

Fear  not,  isle  of  blowing  woodland,  isle  of  silvery  parapets, 

Tho'  the  Roman  eagle  shadow  thee,  tho'  the  gathering  enemy 

narrow  thee, 
Thou  shalt  wax  and  he  shall  dwindle,  thou  shalt  be  the  mighty  one 

yet! 

Never,  perhaps,  at  a  Sunday  concert  at  the  Albert  Hall 
had  such  applause  been  heard.  Manuella  had  not  to  be 
prompted,  although  Lulu  was  prepared  to  remind  her. 
She  leaned  forward,  clapping  with  all  her  might  in  a  flush 
of  whole-hearted  admiration  that  her  generosity  could 
not  withhold.  She  might  dislike  the  woman,  but  she  had 
to  admire  the  artist. 

"  You  behaved  splendidly,  my  dear,  splendidly,"  Lulu 
told  her  enthusiastically.  "  Everyone  could  see  there  is 
nothing  in  the  gossip."  Lulu  had  a  little  lost  her  head 
or  would  not  have  been  so  outspoken.  "  No  one  ap- 
plauded her  more  than  you  did." 

A  chorus  of  congratulations  followed,  charming  things 
were  said  about  Harston's  music,  Russell  Marston's  con- 
ducting, Alma  Orilia's  glorious  voice.  Lulu  said  it  was 
impossible  to  stay  for  another  number,  it  would  be  anti- 
climax. She  was  already  standing  up  to  go,  collect- 
ing her  bag,  purse,  muff,  veil,  talking  to  everyone  at 
once. 

"  Are  you  coming?  "  she  asked  Manuella. 

"  What  has  there  been  gossip  about  ?  " 

It  was  Waldo  who  asked  it.  Peter  was  finding  her 
wrap,  offering  her  his  motor,  criticizing  the  performance, 
frying  to  say  the  things  that  would  please  her. 

"  If  she  only  looked  Boadicea  as  well  as  she  sang  it," 
he  said. 


27o  CONCERT    PITCH 

Manuella  answered  Waldo,  hurriedly: 

"  About  her,  and  my  husband." 

She  did  not  know  whether  to  accept  Lulu  Marston's 
offer,  or  Peter's.  She  really  wanted  to  stay  where  she 
was,  to  sit  out  the  remainder  of  the  concert,  keeping 
Waldo  with  her.  But  Peter  was  an  adept  at  petits  soins; 
he  was  holding  her  coat,  everyone  in  the  box  was  stand- 
ing up : 

"  I'll  get  the  motor  round  in  a  minute.  .  .  .  " 

"  If  you  are  going  in  Madame  Migotti's  direction.  .  .  ." 
There  were  half  a  dozen  candidates  for  the  honour  of 
accompanying  Lulu,  and  she  was  always  in  a  hurry,  full 
up  with  engagements. 

"  I  think  I  would  rather  wait.  .  .  .  Harston  may  come 
up,  he  knows  I  am  here,"  Manuella  said  irresolutely  to 
Mr.  Graham. 

"  I  will  send  round  and  tell  him,  ask  him  to  join  us." 
Peter  was  never  at  fault. 

But  Harston  might  be  seeing  Alma  Orilia  home,  and 
send  her  a  humiliating  message  to  that  effect.  The 
thought  came  quickly. 

"  No,  don't  do  that.     Perhaps  I  had  better  not  wait." 

Again  Waldo  interposed: 

"  Why  not  walk  home  ?  " 

"  Walk  ?  "  Peter  was  able  to  assure  her  that  it  was 
raining.  He  had  no  doubt  she  would  prefer  his  society, 
and  his  motor,  to  that  of  this  eccentric  looking  person 
whose  clothes  were  so  obviously  of  last  year's  cut,  made 
by  a  second-rate  tailor. 

"  I  think  I  should  like  to  walk." 

"  Perhaps  you  had  better  go  in  the  motor.  ..." 

Waldo  was  always  unaccountable.  Maybe  he  did  not 
want  her  to  get  wet,  but  it  was  possible,  too,  that  he  was 
not,  even  now,  in  complete  command  of  himself. 

"  I  will  call  upon  you  if  I  may.  ..." 

"  Curious  fellow,  your  friend,"  Peter  Graham  said, 
when  they  drove  off  together.  He  had  got  the  car  up 
quickly,  handed  her  in,  wrapped  the  furs  carefully  round 
her.  "  That  was  an  idea  of  his !  to  walk  home !  Who  is 


CONCERT    PITCH  271 

he?  I  don't  seem  to  remember  having  met  him.  Have 
you  known  him  long?" 

"  He  is  the  Earl  of  Lyssons.  He  is  a  friend  of  my 
brother's." 

She  did  not  know  why  she  should  say  this,  why  she 
wished  to  explain,  to  be  disingenuous. 

He  had  asked  if  he  might  call  upon  her.  All  the  way 
home  she  was  wondering  when  he  would  come.  Peter 
Graham  had  not  even  the  reward  of  her  attention  in 
return  for  his  pertinacity.  But  it  was  of  little  conse- 
quence, his  vanity  put  her  abstraction  down  to  nervous- 
ness. There  was  no  doubt,  he  thought,  he  was  beginning 
to  affect  her;  she  could  not  talk  to  him  with  ease. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

SHE  had  not  long  to  wait.  Waldo  came  the  very  next 
day,  almost  before  she  expected  him,  though  un- 
consciously she  expected  him  every  moment  of  the 
time.  Quite  early  in  the  morning,  a  huge  box  of  roses 
arrived,  each  rose  pink  and  perfect  on  its  long  stem. 
She  spent  an  hour  arranging  them  in  china  vases,  silver 
bowls  and  tall  glasses.  At  four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon, 
when  Lord  Lyssons  came,  the  little  room  was  full  of 
scent  and  colour.  He  seemed  amazingly  tall,  and  more 
like  Don  Quixote  than  ever.  He  saw  that  she  still  looked 
like  a  girl,  although  some  quality  had  been  added,  some 
depth  or  tenderness.  As  yet  he  scarcely  knew  in  what 
way  she  had  altered,  although  he  knew  so  well,  as  men  do 
know  these  things,  that  he  cared  for  her  more  than  ever. 
Something  Lulu  Marston  had  said  or  suggested  gave  him 
the  clue.  If  unhappiness  lay  in  wait  for  her,  she  might 
have  need  of  him.  He  had  nothing  now  in  his  mind 
but  that  she  was  young  and  friendless,  and  her  brother 
Albert  away. 

At  first  they  talked  only  of  Albert.  If  he  was  moved 
at  seeing  her  no  sign  was  apparent.  His  whimsical 
sententiousness,  whatever  the  depth  or  intensity  of  h'-« 
feelings,  was  not  in  abeyance,  his  sense  of  humour  was 
never  at  fault.  On  the  surface,  at  least,  she  was  more 
nervous  than  he,  talking  quickly  to  hide  it. 

With  abruptness  she  said: 

272 


CONCERT   PITCH  273 

"  You  are  going  to  tell  me  about  Albert.  I  can't  make 
out  why  he  didn't  come  and  say  good-bye?  What  made 
him  decide  so  suddenly?  Was  he  sent  for?" 

"  Some  people  might  express  it  that  way.  I  suppose 
you've  never  heard  of  a  judgment  summons?" 

"  No." 

"Well,  Albert  had." 

"  You  mean  he  had  been  spending  too  much  money?  " 

"  You  have  guessed  it  at  once,  or  nearly  guessed  it. 
May  I  sit  down?" 

"  I  am  so  sorry,  he  was  so  generous,  more  than  gener- 
ous to  me.  He  furnished  this  house  almost  completely." 

Waldo  looked  round  him  with  interest,  as  if  it  were 
the  first  time  he  had  seen  the  furniture.  She  went 
on: 

"  He  always  said  he  had  nothing  to  do  with  it,  pre- 
tended he  didn't  know  where  the  things  came  from." 

"  Good  by  stealth  sort  of  thing." 

"Of  course,  I  know  he  did  -not  want  to  be  thanked ; 
he  has  been  so  good  to  me.  Why  didn't  he  tell  me  he 
was  in  trouble?" 

"  He  told  me." 

"  It  wasn't  anything,  anything  to  do.  ...  I  mean,  I 
know  there  was  someone.  ..." 

"  There  was  certainly  a  lady  in  the  case." 

"  Oh !  " 

"  From  whom  I  suggested  an  immediate  separation." 

"  But  perhaps  she  cared  for  him,  Albert  believed  she 
cared  for  him."  The  vivid  flush  made  him  look  the  other 
way.  But  he  need  not  have  troubled,  for  she,  too,  had 
turned  her  head. 

"  She  cared  a  good  deal  for  his  cheque-book,  and  a 
little  for  his  prospects.  I  should  not  worry  about  her  if 
I  were  you.  I  don't  think  her  heart  was  broken,  when 
they  told  her  he  had  gone  away." 

"  Did  she  try  to  prevent  him  ?  I  suppose  he  said 
'Good-bye'  to  her?" 

"  No !  His  lawyer  did  that ;  said  it  awfully  well,  I 
believe,  and  .  .  .  inexpensively.  That  is  enough  about 


274  CONCERT   PITCH 

Albert,  isn't  it?  You've  got  a  baby,  haven't  you?  Why 
not  produce  him  just,  just  to  change  the  subject." 

He  had  asked  whether  he  might  sit  down,  but  he  was 
again  standing. 

"  It  seems  impossible  you  are  married." 

He  stumbled  on,  it  was  difficult  to  be  talking  calmly 
to  her.  He  saw  now  that  she  did  not  look  happy,  that 
was  the  chief  alteration  he  found  in  her.  Not  maturity 
nor  wisdom,  but,  lurking  in  her  eyes'  dark  depths,  was 
that  which  told  him  all  was  not  well  with  her. 

"  Produce  your  offspring.  I  suppose  he  will  have  to 
have  his  pinafore  taken  off,  and  his  hair  brushed  up.  .  .  ." 

She  smiled  for  the  first  time  since  he  had  come. 

"  He  doesn't  wear  a  pinafore,  and  his  hair  curls  natu- 
rally, it  never  has  to  be  brushed  up  for  company.  I  am 
going  to  fetch  him  myself.  I  shan't  be  two  seconds ;  I'll 
bring  him  just  as  he  is." 

She  was  back  before  he  had  time  to  miss  her,  bearing 
the  child  in  her  arms.  Waldo  really  liked  babies,  an  un- 
usual trait  in  a  man ;  so  he  took  him  from  her,  and  as  he 
said,  made  a  careful  inspection.  Any  excuse  served  to 
conceal  his  feelings.  The  baby  was  not  like  his  mother ; 
he  had  Harston's  big  head  and  fair  hair,  Bertie's  blue 
eyes.  It  was  a  curious  experience  to  be  dangling  her 
child  on  his  knee.  To  him  she  was  still  only  a  girl.  If 
she  had  looked  happy,  if  Lulu  Marston  had  not  let  fall 
that  unguarded  word,  if  Mr.  Peter  Graham  had  not  sat 
by  her  side  with  an  unmistakable  expression,  he,  Waldo, 
would  have  gone,  never  to  come  back ;  he  would  have 
stayed  away  from  her  at  all  costs.  //,  if,  iff  But  he 
had  sent  Bertie  to  South  Africa  out  of  the  imbroglio 
of  his  affairs.  Someone  must  be  here  to  stand  by 
her. 

The  baby  made  itself  at  home  on  Waldo's  knee,  gurgled 
at  the  eye-glass,  and  made  inefficient  darts  to  possess 
himself  of  it.  Waldo  talked  to  him  in  his  characteristic 
way.  The  incoherencies  that  passed  for  talk,  and  were 
the  preliminary  to  it,  the  "  mum  mum  "  and  "  nan  nan," 
encouraged  his  absurdities.  Screwing  his  glass  into  his 


CONCERT    PITCH  275 

eye,  and  looking  down  at  the  child  seriously,  Lord 
Lyssons  said : 

"  I  have  no  doubt  there  is  not  a  word  you  are  saying, 
young  fellow,  with  which  I'm  not  absolutely  in  agreement. 
You  don't  say  it  very  well,  but  I  think  I  grasp  your  mean- 
ing. You  are  jolly  glad  to  be  in  the  world  at  all,  and  you 
have  made  up  your  mind  to  laugh  your  way  through  it. 
If  I  poke  at  you  with  my  finger  you  will  laugh."  The  baby 
certainly  did,  and  seemed  to  like  the  tickling.  "  If  my 
glass  drops  out,"  which  it  had  done  during  the  tickling 
process,  "  you  will  laugh  again,  although  I  can't  see  half 
a  yard  before  me  without  it.  No !  don't  grab  at  it  ... 
it  will  hurt  your  little  fingers.  As  for  putting  it  in  your 
mouth,  it  is  not  to  be  thought  of.  Here,  take  this,  jamb 
my  watch  in  your  mouth ;  that  won't  hurt  you.  Gums 
hot,  eh?  Well,  never  mind,  here's  my  finger;  it's  softer 
than  the  watch,  but  that's  not  saying  much,  is  it?  Bite 
down  on  it,  that's  good.  He  is  pretty  strong,  isn't  he  ?  " 

She  offered  once  or  twice  to  take  the  child  from  him, 
but  he  would  not  give  it  up.  Harston  talked  a  great 
deal  about  the  baby,  but  never  to  it.  He  had  written 
a  berceuse,  not  dandled  his  son  on  his  knee. 

Into  this  picture  of  domesticity  sailed  Mrs.  Oscar  Des 
Vceux.  Manuella  had  omitted  to  deny  herself  to  visitors. 
She  was  not  expecting  anyone  but  Waldo,  yet  many  came 
that  afternoon.  Mrs.  Oscar  Des  Vceux  almost  shrieked 
at  the  sight  of  the  baby,  and  begged  that  he  might  be 
sent  away  at  once. 

"  I  have  the  same  idiosyncrasy  about  children  that 
Lord  Roberts  has  about  cats.  I  simply  cannot  bear  them 
in  the  room  with  me." 

She  seemed  quite  proud  of  it,  and  Waldo  sympatheti- 
cally interested  himself  in  her  symptoms,  after  Manuella 
introduced  them,  asking  for  details.  But  this  occupied 
Mrs.  Des  Vceux  for  a  comparatively  short  time.  What 
she  had  come  for  was  to  find  out  how  Manuella  had  borne 
Alma's  triumph  of  yesterday,  what  she  thought  of  it. 

"  It  must  have  been  hard  for  you  to  hear  what  another 
woman  could  do  with  the  song." 


276  CONCERT    PITCH 

"  It  wasn't  hard  at  all."  Manuella  was  surprised  at 
that  view  of  it.  "  I  only  wish  I  could  have  sung  it  as 
she  did ;  but,  of  course,  I  couldn't,  and  I  am  glad  Harston 
has  found  someone  who  can." 

"  Oh,  my  dear,  it  is  all  very  well  to  carry  it  off  like 
that,  and,  of  course,  it  is  very  brave  of  you;  I  daresay 
I  should  have  done  the  same  thing  myself.  But  every- 
body is  talking  about  them.  ...  I  suppose  you  have 
heard  about  it  ?  "  she  asked  Waldo. 

"  No,"  he  answered  laconically,  and  Manuella  flushed 
angrily. 

:'  There  is  nothing  for  Lord  Lyssons  to  hear." 

"Nothing!  Well,  I'm  sure  I  don't  know  what  you 
call  nothing.  My  husband  is  fearfully  upset;  you  know 
she  has  left  us  and  taken  a  flat.  I  told  her  I  really 
couldn't  have  him  in  Harley  Street  from  morning  till 
night.  I  hear  he  is  never  out  of  the  flat." 

"  I  don't  want  to  hear.  ..." 

"  I  can  quite  understand  that.  But  I  thought  if  we  put 
our  heads  together.  ..." 

Waldo  tried  to  create  a  diversion,  but  Mrs.  Des  Vceux 
would  talk  of  nothing  but  the  growing  scandal  of  Harston 
Migotti's  devotion  to  Alma  Orilia. 

"  Not  that  that  is  the  way  I  should  have  put  it  myself. 
For  my  part,  I  should  say  the  boot  is  just  as  much,  or 
more,  on  the  other  leg." 

"  Extraordinary !  "  interpolated  Waldo. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon." 

"  I  was  only  thinking  what  an  extraordinary  position 
that  must  have  been  for  the  boot,  to  be  just  as  much  or 
more.  ..." 

Mrs.  Des  Voeux  could  not  understand  his  treating  the 
matter  so  lightly. 

"  She  runs  after  him,  I  mean,"  she  explained.  "  Of 
course,  in  a  way,  it's  all  for  his  advantage.  Not  that 
Juan  is  likely  to  put  up  with  it.  Juan  lets  her  do  what 
she  likes,  up  to  a  point.  ..." 

Manuella  could  not  bear  that  Waldo  should  hear  her 
husband  was  neglecting  her  and  running  after  another 


CONCERT   PITCH  277 

woman.  But  Mrs.  Des  Voeux  would  talk  of  nothing  else, 
commiserating  her,  saying  she  had  been  warned,  advising 
her  what  to  do.  Waldo  made  no  attempt  to  go,  although 
now  Manuella  wished  he  would. 

Gerald,  always  at  home  in  the  house,  although  no 
longer  staying  there,  arrived  in  the  midst  of  it.  Mrs.  Des 
Vceux's  indiscretion  included  him,  and  he  was  understood 
to  say  something  about  the  artistic  temperament.  He  had 
rushed  up  in  a  taxi  to  find  Harston,  and  when  he  heard 
he  was  not  there,  and  had  not  been  home  since  ten  in  the 
morning,  he  left  again  immediately.  "  I'll  be  bound  he 
knows  where  to  find  him,"  Mrs.  Des  Voeux  said,  with  her 
shrill  laugh,  getting  up  to  go.  Manuella  asked  her  if 
she  wanted  a  cab  sent  for. 

"  Oh,  my  dear,  no.  I  don't  trust  myself  to  chance  in 
this  neighbourhood,  I  kept  mine.  Then  I'm  to  tell  Oscar 
you  won't  do  anything;  you  are  quite  satisfied  they 
should  be  the  talk  of  the  town  ?  " 

She  was  scarcely  out  of  the  house,  Waldo  had  hardly 
had  time  to  ask  who  was  the  Tommy  Traddles  who 
popped  in  and  went  out  again,  before  there  was  another 
interruption. 

Manuella  was  explaining : 

"  It  was  Gerald  Streatfield,  Harston's  great  friend ; 
they  play  together ;  he  copies  the  scores,  helps  in  all  sorts 
of  ways." 

"  I  suppose  it  was  he  who  sent  you  all  those 
roses." 

"  Who  ?  Gerald  ?  Oh,  no !  They  came  from  Mr. 
Graham." 

It  was  the  very  moment  the  servant  announced : 

"  Mr.  Graham." 

Peter  came  in,  most  perfectly  dressed  in  morning  coat 
and  grey  trousers,  grey  tie,  suede  gloves. 

"  I  have  only  rushed  in  for  a  moment." 

Waldo,  Manuella  herself,  thought  he,  too,  would  say 
something  about  Harston  and  Alma  Orilia.  He  bowed 
over  her  hand,  kissed  it.  That  slight  roll  in  his  r's  ex- 
cused his  manners,  which  were  too  good,  just  as  his 


278  CONCERT    PITCH 

movements  were  too  graceful,  and  his  clothes  too  decora- 
tive, for  a  well-bred  Englishman. 

"  I  found  myself  in  the  neighbourhood,  I  hope  you  do 
not  mind.  It  is  about  to-morrow  night.  I  want  to  know 
if  your  husband  would  care  to  play.  I  don't  want  to  ask 
him  formally.  ..." 

"  Harston  is  not  at  home." 

She  made  him  welcome — too  welcome,  Waldo  thought. 
But  all  these  roses  were  from  him,  and  it  was  the  second 
time  he  had  sent  her  flowers.  He  had  "  r-rushed  "  in  for 
a  moment,  but  he  stayed  quite  ten  minutes,  thoroughly 
charming,  telling  them  the  guests  he  was  expecting 
to-morrow  night. 

"  If  you  would  care  to  join  us,  I  should  be  very  pleased. 
I  don't  know  if  you  care  for  music?  " 

Manuella  was  surprised  when  Waldo,  after  an  im- 
perceptible moment  of  hesitation,  accepted  the  invita- 
tion. 

"  I  shall  be  delighted." 

She,  at  least,  knew  he  was  not  musical. 

Peter  Graham  apologized  for  asking  him  only  for  the 
evening,  not  for  dinner. 

"  My  house  is  small.  ..."  He  apologized  for  the 
smallness  of  his  house.  When  he  went  away  he  again 
kissed  Manuella's  hand,  said  how  he  was  looking  forward 
to  seeing  her,  and  that  she  need  not  trouble  to  let  him 
know  whether  her  husband  would  play  or  not. 

When  the  door  closed  behind  him,  Waldo,  still  main- 
taining his  place  on  the  hearthrug,  asked  her  if  she 
expected  many  more  visitors. 

"  You  have  quite  a  lot  of  nice  new  friends.  ..." 

"  Mrs.  Des  Voeux  isn't  a  friend  of  mine." 

After  that  he  was  silent,  silent  quite  a  long  time. 
Manuella  was  afraid  he  would  begin  to  speak  about  Alma 
and  Harston.  She  would  tell  him  that  she  did  not  care ; 
she  would  not  have  him  pity  her.  But,  of  course,  Lord 
Lyssons  did  nothing  of  the  sort.  He  stood  with  his 
back  to  the  fire  and  warmed  his  coat-tails.  When  he 
spoke  it  was  of  the  weather. 


CONCERT    PITCH  279 

"  It  is  perfectly  ridiculous  to  have  a  fire  on  such  a  hot 
day." 

"  Well,  there's  nothing  to  make  you  stand  before  it." 

"  I  am  protecting  you  from  its  heat." 

"  I  don't  want  protecting." 

"  No,  no ;  of  course  not."  He  seemed  a  little  ab- 
stracted. 

"  Nice  fellow,  Peter  Graham,"  he  began  again.  "  Sym- 
pathetic manner.  Does  he  always  kiss  your  hand  and 
send  you  flowers?  You  were  always  fond  of  flowers,  I 
remember." 

"  Always." 

She  remembered  how  well  she  had  been  kept  supplied — 
the  rare  orchids,  and  afterwards,  when  she  had  expressed 
a  preference,  the  great  pink  peonies.  From  that  day  to 
this  no  one  had  sent  her  flowers.  "  No  one  has  sent  me 
flowers  since  then,"  she  said  involuntarily. 

What  he  wanted  to  answer  was  that  no  one  but  himself 
should  send  her  flowers.  What  he  actually  said  was : 

"  Well,  now  he  has  begun,  he  will  go  on.  You  have 
only  to  tell  him  you  like  it,  I  am  sure.  Graham  is  sure 
to  do  the  right  thing ;  I  should  think  he  knows  the  game 
backwards." 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  mean." 

"  Of  course  you  don't ;  how  should  you  ?  "  And  then, 
inconsequently,  he  continued : 

"  You  know  that  kid  of  yours  ought  to  have  something 
to  cut  his  grinders  on.  I'd  better  see  about  it  for  you. 
What's  the  little  beggar's  name?  I  ought  to  have  been 
his  godfather." 

"  He  hasn't  been  christened.  We  always  call  him  baby. 
I  meant  to  ask  Albert."  She  was  a  little  confused,  as  if 
she  had  been  guilty  of  carelessness,  but,  in  reality, 
Harston  was  the  culprit.  The  christening  had  been  put 
off  again  and  again,  in  order  that  his  work  should  be 
uninterrupted. 

"  He  is  registered  Albert." 

"Well,  call  him  Albert  Waldo.  Why  not?  I  should 
like  to  have  an  interest  in  him." 


28o  CONCERT    PITCH 

He  went  away  soon  after  that.  He  had  not  said  one 
word  to  her  of  all  he  had  in  his  head.  He  thought  she 
might  need  a  friend,  and  he  wanted  her  to  know  he  would 
be  that  friend.  Not  only  to  her,  but  also  to  her  child. 
He  was  so  filled  with  tenderness  for  her,  and  fear,  that  he 
had  not  a  word  to  say.  For  it  was  obvious  to  him  that 
her  husband  was  engrossed  with  another  woman,  and  that 
this  man,  Graham,  at  least,  was  ready  to  rush  into  the 
breach.  He  would  have  to  wait  until  he  was  more  used 
to  seeing  her  before  he  could  tell  her  anything.  Now  he 
only  wanted  to  tell  her  that  he  was  her  friend,  that  she 
was  to  trust  to  him.  He  knew  she  did  not  want  him  to 
speak  to  her  about  her  husband,  to  know  she  was  being 
neglected,  and  gossiped  about.  Her  pride  and  her  sensi- 
tiveness were  known  to  him,  as  well  as  her  impulsiveness 
and  capacity  for  folly.  He  did  not  mean  to  let  her  out 
of  his  sight  again ;  but  for  the  moment  speech  was  para- 
lysed in  him. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

SINCE  Waldo  was  to  be  at  Peter  Graham's  party, 
it  was  for  Waldo  Manuella  dressed.  She  had  the 
talent  of  clothes;  Peter  Graham  appreciated  it  in  her; 
it  was  part  of  her  attraction  for  him. 

To-night  the  pliant  satin  fell  in  long,  graceful  lines ; 
the  lace  crossed  transparently  over  the  pale  perfection  of 
her  shoulders,  revealing  the  slender  throat  and  suggesting 
the  small  rounded  breasts.  Her  hair  was  without  orna- 
ment, coiled  low  and  simply  on  her  small  and  regal  head. 

When  she  entered  the  drawing-room  in  Hertford 
Street,  her  host  experienced  a  genuine  emotion.  He  ad- 
vanced to  meet  her,  and  showed  at  once  that  she  was  the 
guest  of  the  evening,  although  there  might  be  others  more 
celebrated.  It  was  a  small  party;  she  had  hardly  time 
to  recognize  faces  she  had  seen  in  illustrated  papers  when 
dinner  was  announced. 

In  the  beautiful  small  dining-room,  at  the  round  table, 
with  its  exquisite  napery,  old  glass  and  Queen  Anne 
silver,  she  became  aware  that  her  neighbour  was  a 
Cabinet  Minister,  and  her  vis-a-vis  the  most  famous  and 
popular  lawyer  who  had  ever  followed  a  forensic  by  a 
parliamentary  success.  The  newest  and  most  defensible 
of  peers  was  at  the  other  end  of  the  table.  There  were 
only  twelve  guests  at  the  dinner-table,  and  none  of  them 
was  unknown. 

281 


282  CONCERT    PITCH 

The  dinner  was  quite  short ;  Manuella  was  without  the 
experience  to  know  how  exquisitely  it  was  thought  out 
and  served,  or  how  carefully  selected  were  the  wines. 
But  she  could  not  escape  knowing  that  the  setting  had 
been  prepared  for  her.  For  she  was  seated  at  the  right 
hand  of  her  host  and  his  eyes  and  words  were  eloquent. 
Of  course,  she  enjoyed  this  attention;  she  was  young 
and  beautiful  to-night,  glowing  with  expectancy.  She 
had  forgotten  for  the  moment  that  Harston's  conduct 
with  Alma  Orilia  was  exposing  her  to  insulting  sympathy. 
Her  host's  eyes  told  her  she  was  looking  well,  if  her  glass 
had  not  told  it  her  before.  And  it  was  so  Waldo  would 
see  her. 

Peter  Graham  had  built  his  own  house,  and,  like  every- 
thing he  did,  it  showed  evidence  of  an  exquisite  taste. 
The  music-room  led  out  of  the  dining-room,  although  it 
was  on  a  lower  level.  It  was  approached  by  steps  from 
a  balcony,  and  on  the  balcony  Manuella  stood  by  her 
host's  side  whilst  he  was  receiving  his  guests.  The  long 
room  below  was  sombre  and  dignified,  with  panelling  of 
cedar-wood  and  silver,  lit  by  electric  lights.  There  were 
deep  recesses  in  the  walls,  where,  on  shelves,  behind 
reticulated  glass,  on  velvet  cushions,  she  could  dimly  see 
the  great  collection  of  musical  stringed  instruments  he 
told  her  he  had  spent  the  best  part  of  his  life  in  getting 
together.  Here  were  the  masterpieces  of  Stradivarius, 
Guanarius  and  Amati;  the  viols  and  violas  de  Gamba. 
Peter  Graham's  evening  guests  were  as  distinguished  as 
this  small  perfect  music-room  on  which  they  were  looking 
down,  and  all  the  house,  which  he  promised  to  show  her 
presently.  But  there  was  only  one  to  whose  coming  she 
looked  forward. 

Waldo  was  very  late ;  at  one  time  she  thought  he  would 
not  come  at  all.  It  was  not  until  the  evening  was  far 
advanced,  and  she  had  left  the  balcony,  and  was  with 
the  other  guests  in  the  music-room,  that  she  became 
aware  he  was  present.  The  moment  was  inauspicious. 
Alma  Orilia  was  on  the  platform,  and  Harston  at  the 
piano.  She  was  supremely  conscious  of  comment.  Had 


CONCERT    PITCH  283 

she  not  been,  her  host's  apology  would  have  made  her  so. 

"  I  wish  I  had  not  asked  her  to-night.  I  did  so  want 
you  to  be  perfectly  happy  in  my  house,  to  be  able  to  look 
back  to  this  evening.  ..." 

Waldo  did  not  make  his  way  to  her  side  immediately. 

By  the  time  he  came  the  song  was  over,  and  Harston 
had  disappeared  with  the  singer. 

"  I  am  so  sorry,"  Mr.  Graham  began  again. 

"  There  is  not  the  least  occasion.  ..."  He  had  to 
leave  her  with  the  sentence  unfinished  to  greet  some  fresh 
arrival. 

Waldo  sauntered  up ;  he  cannot  be  said  to  have  shown 
any  alacrity.  It  was  either  his  leisureliness  or  because 
Mr.  Graham  had  thought  it  necessary  to  express  his 
regret,  that  sent  her  spirits  down. 

"  You  like  this  sort  of  thing  ?  "  Waldo  asked. 

"  We  lived  a  very  quiet  life  when  we  were  first  mar- 
ried," she  answered  evasively. 

"  Oh,  yes." 

He  knew  all  about  that  quiet  life  from  Albert.  And 
now  the  man,  the  man  to  whom  she  had  sacrificed  herself, 
for  whom  she  had  worked,  was  openly  neglecting  her  for 
another  woman.  He  would  have  given  anything  to  have 
been  able  to  ask  her  if  she  was  hurt,  if  he  could  not 
comfort  her.  He  did,  of  course,  nothing  of  the  sort. 
After  a  few  seconds'  silence  he  said  : 

"  And  how  is  my  young  godson  ?  Did  he  get  those 
corals  I  sent  him  up?" 

"And  the  teething  band,  and  the  baby  comforter? 
Yes,  they  all  came,  and  I  meant  to  write  and  thank  you. 
But  I  knew  I  was  going  to  meet  you  here  to-night." 

"  Were  you  glad  ?  "  the  words  escaped  him.  "  As  if 
you  could  say  you  were  not !  "  he  finished. 

"  I  don't  know." 

That  curious  pain  she  had  so  long  ago,  and  had  almost 
forgotten,  the  pain  which  only  Waldo  had  ever  given 
her,  was  stirring  within  her  like  a  couchant  animal  wak- 
ing. In  consciousness  of  it,  and  her  shyness,  she  turned 
gladly  to  her  host,  again  by  her  side. 


284  CONCERT   PITCH 

"  You  won't  care  about  the  next  number.  I  want  to 
show  you  my  prints.  Will  you  come  ?  " 

She  went  upstairs  with  him,  through  the  dining-room 
again,  across  the  hall  to  the  morning- room.  They  were 
quite  alone  there,  and  now  she  was  talking  gaily,  easily. 
To  anyone  but  Waldo  she  could  talk  easily.  She  excited 
Peter  Graham's  imagination;  he  had  meant  the  evening 
to  be  momentous,  and  now  he  thought  it  might  be  even 
more  momentous  than  he  had  dared  to  hope.  He  could 
not  gauge  the  instability  of  her  mood,  any  more  than  he 
could  know  what  provoked  it.  He  only  knew  she  was 
glad  to  come  away  with  him. 

"  You  collect  prints  as  well  as  musical  instruments  ?  " 
she  looked  round  her  with  admiration. 

They  were  alone  in  a  room  that  was  little  more  than 
a  cabinet  of  old  colour-prints.  Hung  low  and  crowded 
on  the  panelled  walls,  they  were  appropriate  with  the 
Chelsea  china,  chintz  curtains,  Chippendale  furniture. 
She  exclaimed  at  the  charm  of  the  scheme,  and  he  drew 
her  attention  to  one  or  two  of  the  gems  of  the  collection. 

"  You  see  so  quickly,  so  wonderfully,"  he  said. 

"  Do  I  ?  I  know  I  am  awfully  ignorant.  But  the 
whole  room  seems  so  right,  so  harmonious.  Why  is  one 
so  much  happier  in  the  right  surroundings  ?  " 

"  You  feel  happy  here  ? "  He  wondered  if  she  meant 
it  for  an  opening.  Yesterday  he  thought  she  had  read 
no  page  in  the  grammar  of  philandering.  To-night  he 
was  beginning  to  believe  she  could  write  verses  in  the 
language ;  little  wonder  his  pulses  began  to  throb. 

'  You  feel  happy  here ;  with  me  ?  " 

'And  the  prints." 

'  Don't  laugh  at  me,"  he  said  in  a  lower  voice. 

'  I  was  not  laughing." 

'  You  don't  know  what  it  is  to  me  to  see  you  here, 
among  the  things  I  love.  ..." 

Peter  saw  the  path  before  him  quite  clearly ;  he  had 
traversed  it  so  many  times.  Never,  of  course,  with  such 
a  companion.  The  last  was  always  the  only  one  with 
Peter  Graham.  He  began  at  the  beginning: 


CONCERT    PITCH  285 

"  Don't  you  feel  that  in  some  way  we  are  en  rapport?  " 
His  blurred  r's  made  the  speech's  effect.  "  That  we  have 
the  same  tastes?  Have  you  also  that  sudden  indefinable 
feeling  of  intimacy,  as  if  we  had  known  each  other  a 
long  time  ?  " 

She  hesitated,  she  said  she  was  not  sure  if  she  felt 
intimate  with  him ;  blushed  when  she  said  it.  It  had 
only  been  for  a  moment  she  had  been  an  advanced  scholar, 
written  verses  in  the  new  language  he  was  teaching  her; 
now  she  was  a  tyro  again,  unsophisticated.  He  loved 
teaching.  He  played  the  violin,  but  it  was  only  in  illicit 
love  he  was  a  master.  And  he  guarded  his  own  emo- 
tions, nursing  them  until  they  were  so  delicate  that  every 
word  fluttered  them. 

Manuella's  experience  in  being  made  love  to  was 
exceedingly  limited.  Harston  was  but  an  impetuous 
amateur,  and  Lord  Lyssons  even  less  gifted.  Now  she 
was  in  the  hands  of  a  master.  At  dinner  she  had  been 
conscious  that  he  thought  her  beautiful;  now  he  made 
her  aware  that  she  was  full  of  undiscovered  possibilities, 
unrevealed  charms.  He  went  easily  from  that  to  her 
husband's  infatuation  for  the  singer,  or  of  the  singer 
for  him.  His  delicacy  in  approaching  the  matter  at  all 
was  only  exceeded  by  his  tact  in  conveying  sympathy 
without  actually  opening  the  subject. 

"  You  must  not  let  it  distress  you.  If  you  cared,  if 
you  authorized  me,  I  would  write  to  her  husband,  to 
Juan  Orilia  .  .  .  though,  of  course,  you  can  hold 
your  own  without  anybody's  help.  But  if  they  should 
take  any  step  .  .  .  inimical  .  .  .  inimical  to  your  inter- 
ests. ..." 

He  was  telling  her  that  she  had  a  friend  in  him.  She 
was  quickly  responsive  to  kindness,  and  thanked  him 
impulsively. 

"  I  don't  really  care,  only  I  hate  people  discussing 
me."  She  denied  and  acknowledged  in  a  breath. 

"  I  understand ;  I  quite  understand." 

Waldo,  who  had  missed  them,  interrupted  most  un- 
expectedly, walking  into  the  room  as  if  it  were  natural 


286  CONCERT    PITCH 

for  him  to  be  there.  He  saw  that  she  was  agitated,  and 
mistook  the  cause. 

"  And  this  is  the  famous  collection  of  prints  ?  " 

If  Peter  Graham  was  surprised  to  find  they  were  no 
longer  alone,  he  had  the  talent  to  disguise  it.  He  greeted 
Lord  Lyssons  warmly,  as  if  he  had  no  other  aim  than  to 
show  the  engravings. 

"  You  are  interested  in  prints  ?  I  have  one  of  your 
great-grandmother  by  Bartolozzi  in  colours,  after  Kauff- 
mann ;  and  first  states  of  both  the  Sir  Joshuas."  He 
reminded  Manuella :  "  You  admired  them  very  much." 
Manuella  was  silent  now,  the  manner  of  a  few  moments 
ago  completely  changed.  A  man  would  have  been  a 
fool  not  to  have  noticed  the  change  in  her,  and  Peter 
Graham  was  not  exactly  a  fool.  Peter  thought  Manuella 
was  resenting  Lord  Lyssons's  intrusion,  which,  however, 
he  attributed  to  a  genuine  enthusiasm  for  prints. 

"  The  fourth  Countess  of  Lyssons  was  accounted  a 
great  beauty  in  her  day,  and  all  the  fashionable  portrait 
painters  tried  their  hands  on  her.  I  have  the  mezzotint 
by  John  Jones  after  Romney." 

"  The  beauty  has  not  proved  hereditary." 

Peter  Graham's  wit  was  not  quick. 

"  Oh !  I  don't  know.  Lady  Carruthers  is  a  cousin  of 
yours,  isn't  she  ?  She  was  a  very  lovely  woman.  I  knew 
her  daughter." 

Waldo  said  he  was  fortunate. 

"  If  you  will  accept  a  print  from  me,  I  have  also  a 
second  state  of  the  Jones  mezzotint  which  is  practically 
equal  to  the  first.  It  is  very  rare  in  either  state,  and  is 
not  described  by  Chaloner  Smith.  I  was  going  to  give  it 
to  the  British  Museum,  as  they  haven't  a  copy,  but  if 
you " 

Peter  Graham  knew  all  about  his  own  collection,  which 
distinguished  him  from  the  majority  of  wealthy  col- 
lectors. Lord  Lyssons  expressed  his  gratitude  suitably 
but  declined  the  print. 

"  I'm  afraid  I  must  go  now." 

Peter  Graham  had  his  reputation  as  a  host  to  sustain. 


CONCERT    PITCH  287 

Lord  Lyssons  seemed  absorbed  in  the  walls,  as  if  he 
would  linger  over  them.  "  You  will  excuse  me ;  I  see 
you  are  an  enthusiast.  I  wish  I  could  remain  with  you. 
There  is  a  catalogue." 

When  he  had  left  the  room  Lord  Lyssons  said  to 
Manuella : 

"  I  did  not  know  you  took  such  an  interest  in  prints." 

"  Nor  I  that  you  did,"  she  answered  hastily. 

"  You  seemed  to  have  got  quite  excited  over  them." 
He  was  eyeing  her  curiously. 

"  It  was  not  about  the  prints." 

"  I  imagined  not." 

Mr.  Graham  hurried  back  to  tell  them  supper  was 
served.  "  I  had  no  idea  it  was  so  late.  Will  you  bring 
Mrs.  Migotti  to  the  supper-room  ?  " 

He  remembered  now  that  it  was  in  her  sitting-room  he 
had  met  Lord  Lyssons ;  the  fellow  was  unattractive,  ill- 
dressed,  still  .  .  .  there  was  no  use  pressing  a  tete-a- 
tete  on  her. 

"  There  is  a  seat  reserved  for  Madame  Migotti  at  the 
top  of  the  table.  I  will  be  there  almost  as  soon  as  you 
are.  Prince  Kapotsky  is  just  going,  I  must  see  him 
off." 

"  Are  you  hungry  ?  "  Waldo  asked  Manuella,  when  Mr. 
Graham  hurried  away  again. 

"  Starving." 

"  Come  along,  then." 

That  is  what  it  was,  hunger  of  the  heart.  If  both  of 
them  were  conscious  of  it,  were  they  both  in  hopes 
of  keeping  it  from  the  other.  They  were  very  silent, 
seeming  to  have  nothing  to  say  as  they  went  into  the 
supper-room. 

She  sat  silently,  too,  through  supper,  and  Peter 
Graham,  again  beside  her,  thought  again  that  his  words 
and  himself  had  affected  her,  and  was  well  satisfied.  He 
had  eyes  for  no  one  but  her,  his  deferential  manner  made 
her  conspicuous. 

Lord  Lyssons  was  not  a  man  of  strong  prejudices ;  he 
had  travelled  too  much,  and  seen  too  many  people.  But, 


288  CONCERT    PITCH 

watching  them  both,  he  allowed  a  hard  word  or  two  to 
escape  him. 

"  These  damned  Jews,"  he  said  to  himself,  "  they  can 
buy  the  earth  !  " 

And  then  he  was  ashamed  again,  for  Manuella  was  not 
to  be  bought.  That  she  was  to  be  wooed  he  hardly 
believed ;  that  she  had  to  be  protected  he  instinctively 
knew.  He  suspected  it  at  Albert  Hall,  and  to-night  he 
knew.  Their  host  was  making  little  secret  of  his  feelings, 
Harston  Migotti  was  inseparable  from  Alma  Orilia. 
Lord  Lyssons  heard  Harston  say  hurriedly  to  his  wife, 
after  supper  was  over  and  the  guests  dispersing: 

"  Don't  wait  for  me.  Alma  wants  me  to  see  her 
home.  ..." 

He  was  perhaps  a  little  ashamed,  repeating  a  lesson. 
Alma  had  sent  him  to  say  it,  and  was  watching  the  effect. 
She  looked  insolently  triumphant.  In  some  things  Peter 
was  quicker  than  Waldo,  and  he  knew  women  better, 
women  like  Alma  Orilia. 

"  I  am  hoping  Madame  Migotti  will  not  leave  us  just 
yet,"  he  said  to  Harston.  "  You  can  rely  upon  me  to 
see  her  into  the  motor.  I  told  it  to  come  back  for  her." 

"  Graham  will  look  after  her."  That  was  what  Harston 
reported  to  his  exacting  mistress. 

And  when  the  time  came,  Peter  was  better  than  his 
word.  He  would  not  let  her  go  up  to  the  cloak-room,  but 
sent  for  her  wraps,  seeing  her  afterwards  to  the  car, 
staying  at  the  door  of  it  bareheaded,  talking  earnestly. 

When  Waldo  was  being  helped  into  his  own  coat  in  the 
hall  he  heard  a  laughing  comment  on  his  attention : 

"  Peter  never  alters.  Co-respondents  are  born,  not 
made.  He  has  got  hold  of  a  beauty  this  time.  Lucky 
fellow ! " 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

TWO  days  later,  at  twelve  o'clock  in  the  morning, 
Peter  Graham  was  in  the  sitting-room  at  Circus 
Road,  extraordinarily  pale  and  agitated,  and  Manuella 
was  standing  listening  to  him,  little  less  pale  than  he. 
Her  lips  were  trembling,  her  eyes  startled,  and  she  was 
at  first  incredulous. 

"  That  I  should  be  the  one  to  bring  you  such  news ! " 
he  ejaculated. 

"  You  say  Madame  Orilia  told  you  herself  that  they 
were  going  away  together  ?  " 

"  Her  words  were,  '  You  can  tell  her  that  we  have  left 
for  Genoa.' " 

"  Had  anything  happened  ?  Was  there  any  reason 
why  she  should  have  sent  me  such  a  message,  and  sent 
it  by  you  ?  " 

He  hesitated. 

"  I  happened  to  be  in  the  Buckingham  Palace  Road. 
She  pulled  down  the  window  of  her  brougham  and  called 
to  me.  ...  " 

"  I  want  to  know  exactly  what  she  said.  Was  Harston 
with  her?" 

"  Yes ;  he  was  beside  her.  She  said,  '  Go  and  tell  her 
we  have  gone.'  It  seems,  that  night  at  my  house,  some- 
one heard  you  say  Alma  Orilia  might  sing  your  husband's 
music,  but  .  .  .  What  you  said  was  repeated  to  her.  She 
is  revengeful,  bitter.  ..." 

289 


29o  CONCERT    PITCH 

"  What  I  said  was  that  she  was  quite  welcome  to  sing 
his  music  and  even  to  make  love  to  him,  but  that  she 
would  never  get  any  further;  she  was  too  ugly  to  be 
wicked." 

A  sort  of  dry  sob  escaped  her  as  she  repeated  her  own 
words,  it  was  true  she  had  said  them,  and  to  Mrs.  Des 
Voeux. 

"  She  got  it  into  her  head  you  despised  her  as  a  rival, 
thought  because  she  was  plain.  ..." 

"Ugly!" 

"  Because  she  was  ugly,  you  would  be  able  to  hold 
him,  keep  him  ...  I  don't  know  what  she  thought ; 
she  was  jealous  of  you,  furious  you  were  not  jealous  of 
her.  I  don't  think  he  wanted  to  go ;  he  looked  miserable. 
'  Tell  Manuella,'  he  said,  '  tell  her  I  will  come  back.  .  .  .'  " 

"  How  dare  he  ?  how  dare  he  ?  I  won't  have  him 
back ! " 

"  I  am  sure  everything  was  decided  hurriedly. 
He  explained  it  to  me  as  well  as  he  was  able. 
Stollmont  is  to  be  at  Genoa  on  Saturday;  they  want  to 
catch  him  there.  If  they  can  see  him  before  he  makes 
any  other  arrangements  they  may  get  him  to  put  on 
//  Traditore  before  anything  else." 

"  Harston  wanted  to  make  me  believe  they  have  only 
gone  to  see  Stollmont  ?  " 

"  He  said  the  letter  only  came  this  morning  ...  he 
had  not  heard  of  it  before  he  went  out.  He  sent  young 
Streatfield  up  for  his  clothes,  didn't  he  ?  " 

"  Yes.  Gerald  told  me  he  was  called  away  on  business." 

"  She  won't  be  able  to  hold  him ;  how  would  it  be 
possible  after  .  .  .  after  you?  Tell  me  what  I  can  do 
to  help  you.  You  ought  to  get  away,  not  wait  until  people 
come." 

"  To  condole  with  me  ? "  She  was  almost  beyond 
speech  with  her  contempt  and  indignation,  the  hurt  to  her 
pride. 

"  Everybody  will  be  sorry  for  you  and  condemn  him. 
She  will  have  done  herself  no  good.  I  believe  her  hus- 
band said  he  would  kill  her  the  next  time  it  happened." 


CONCERT    PITCH  291 

She  sat  down  suddenly  on  the  sofa,  her  courage 
collapsing.  Peter  Graham  began  half  a  dozen  sentences 
without  finishing  them;  they  seemed  to  have  in  them 
more  r's  than  any  other  letter.  He,  too,  was  obviously 
labouring  under  deep  emotion.  Through  her  own  fury 
she  became  conscious  of  it,  and  supposed  he  was  sorry  for 
her.  The  other  night  he  had  said  there  was  something  in 
common  between  them,  and  he  had  shown  his  interest  in 
her.  He  came  over  now  and  sat  beside  her. 

"  You  know  how  distressed  I  am."  She  saw  that  there 
were  even  tears  in  his  eyes,  she  spoke  hurriedly  when  she 
saw  them. 

"  I  know." 

Not  grief,  but  anger,  held  her ;  she  knew  she  had  kept 
her  vows,  been  a  good  wife,  lived  in  repression,  thought 
of  nothing  but  her  husband. 

"  How  can  I  help  it  ?  To  see  you  so  beautiful,  and  .  .  . 
and  wronged.  ..." 

He  took  her  hand,  held  it  to  his  lips.  She  forgot  he 
was  there.  Harston  had  left  her!  And  with  that 
woman ! 

She  went  very  pale,  and  he  thought  she  was  going  to 
faint.  "  What  would  Waldo  sayf  "  That  was  the  sud- 
den thought  that  paled  her  cheek. 

Peter  Graham  was  sitting  very  close  to  her,  and  she 
could  not  bear  him  so  near. 

"  I  wish  you  would  get  up."    He  rose  at  once. 

"Shall  I  go?" 

There  was  silence  again  in  the  room,  the  clock  ticked, 
a  cinder  from  the  fire  dropped  into  the  grate.  Again  a 
sudden  passion  of  resentment  seized  her,  a  quick  impulse 
of  ungovernable  anger,  it  died  down,  however,  as  quickly 
as  it  came. 

"  You  don't  mind  me  saying  that  I  think  you  should 
get  away,"  Peter  Graham  went  on :  '  The  news  will  be 
all  over  London  by  to-night.  Then  the  comments,  the 
sympathy ;  newspaper  paragraphs  perhaps.  ..." 

"  How  can  I  get  away  ?  " 

"  Let  me  think." 


292  CONCERT   PITCH 

He  seemed  to  be  thinking. 

"  It  is  impossible  for  me  to  go  away." 

"  You  will  have  them  all  up  here,  questioning,  condol- 
ing. It  will  be  unbearable  for  you." 

She,  too,  was  thinking  how  unbearable  sympathy 
would  be. 

"  Oscar  will  want  you  to  do  nothing.  His  wife  will 
urge  you  to  take  proceedings.  ..." 

"  I  shan't  do  anything  she  advises ;  she  will  gloat  over 
it,  talk  to  everyone.  ..." 

"  You  must  get  away." 

Now  he  spoke  with  decision. 

"  That  is  the  only  possible  thing.  Why  not  go  South  ?  " 
It  seemed  an  inspiration,  as  if  it  had  come  to  him 
suddenly. 

"  I  am  not  going  myself  this  year,"  he  hurried  on.  "  I 
cannot  leave  London.  Take  my  villa,  I  have  a  little 
villa  between  Monte  Carlo  and  Mentone.  ..." 

He  painted  its  deficiencies,  deprecated,  whilst  describ- 
ing, the  charms  of  its  isolation.  It  was  in  a  garden, 
yellow  with  lemon-trees  and  mimosa,  hanging  over  the 
blue  tideless  sea. 

"  I  will  lend  it  you,  if  you  will  allow  me,  or  let  it  to 
you.  You  will  be  quite  alone  there,  and  can  make  up 
your  mind  at  leisure  what  you  are  going  to  do.  There  is 
no  sunnier  spot  in  the  world,  but  there  is  always  shade 
in  the  garden  and  on  the  verandah.  It  is  very  quiet, 
out  of  the  sound  and  sight  of  tramcars  and  motors — 
practically  on  a  promontory." 

She  had  told  him  to  go  away,  but  now  in  the  eagerness 
of  his  speech  he  came  over  to  her  again. 

"  You  don't  know  how  I  should  like  to  feel  I  could  be 
of  use  to  you."  He  spoke  emotionally. 

"  I  know." 

She  believed  that  he  liked  her  and  therefore  offered 
her  this  sign  of  friendship,  that  he  understood  it  would 
be  impossible  for  her  to  stay  here  to  be  sympathized  with, 
to  bear  the  comments  and  curiosity  of  their  friends.  In 
her  eyes  he  was  almost  elderly,  at  the  age  of  friendship. 


CONCERT   PITCH  293 

She  did  not  mean  to  accept  his  offer,  or  rather  she  was 
not  sure  what  to  do.  So  much  would  depend  upon 
Waldo.  .  .  .  When  she  thought  of  what  Waldo  would 
say  or  do  she  flushed  again  and  Peter  Graham  interpreted 
the  flush  in  his  own  way.  He  was  already  beginning  to 
thank  her  fervidly  when  Lord  Lyssons  was  announced. 
No  one  could  have  guessed  Waldo's  sensations  on  seeing 
Peter  Graham  here,  traces  of  emotion  in  his  face,  storm 
of  emotion  in  hers. 

All  he  said  was : 

"Hope  I  don't  intrude?" 

Peter  answered  hurriedly : 

"  I  am  just  going,"  and  made  his  escape,  imagining  he 
had  achieved  all  his  purpose. 

Manuella  followed  him  to  the  door,  saying  something 
in  a  low  voice. 

Waldo  remained  standing  on  the  hearthrug,  his  back 
to  the  fire,  pulling  himself  together.  He  phrased  it  to 
himself : 

"  Pull  yourself  together,  old  man ;  that  damned  Jew 
has  got  hold  of  her  in  some  way,  appealing  to  her  feel- 
ings. You  have  got  to  look  after  her;  don't  go  think- 
ing for  yourself,  and  how  you'd  like  to  wring  his  neck; 
say  the  right  thing  for  once." 

What  Manuella  had  whispered  to  Peter  Graham  was: 

"  Don't  say  anything  before  Lord  Lyssons." 

It  was  only  an  impulse,  but  if  he  had  not  already  heard, 
she  wanted  to  tell  him  herself,  and  when  they  were  by 
themselves.  In  the  hall  she  thanked  Graham  for  coming 
to  her,  and  for  the  offer  of  his  villa.  She  was  touched 
by  the  way  in  which  he  responded  that  he  had  done 
nothing,  and  wished  he  could  do  everything. 

When  she  came  back  to  Waldo  she  was  still  convinced 
of  Graham's  kindness,  but  it  had  become  of  little  moment. 
What  would  happen  when  she  told  Lord  Lyssons  that 
her  husband  had  deserted  her?  How  was  she  going  to 
tell  him? 

She  came  back  into  the  room  with  these  two  questions 
paramount.  For  the  moment  she  forgot  to  be  angry 


294  CONCERT    PITCH 

with  Harston,  contemptuous  of  Alma  Orilia.  What 
would  Waldo  say  ?  That  was  the  beginning  and  end. 

What  Waldo  said  was  : 

"  Have  you  really  been  able  to  part  with  him?  Awful 
wrench,  I  suppose.  Sweet  fellow!  isn't  he?  I  would 
not  have  interrupted  for  anything  if  I  had  known.  May 
I  have  a  cigarette?  " 

She  was  quite  taken  aback  by  his  manner,  quickly  in 
arms  against  it. 

"  Of  course  you  can  smoke.  Mr.  Graham  only 
came  .  .  .  only  came  to  tell  me.  ..." 

"  Oh !  I  can  guess  what  he  came  to  tell  you.  Where 
do  you  keep  your  matches  ?  "  He  was  searching  the 
mantelpiece.  She  found  the  box  on  the  table  and  handed 
it  to  him. 

"  Thanks,  fine  cigarettes,  these  Lucanas.  I  suppose 
Mr.  Graham  does  not  smoke;  that  sort  of  fellow  never 
does." 

"  Why  are  you  talking  like  that  about  Mr.  Graham  ? 
He  is  the  kindest  man  in  the  world ;  he  only  came  up 
here  this  morning,  because — because.  ..." 

"  I  say,  spare  me  what  he  came  up  here  this  morning 
for;  I  came  up  myself  for  the  same  reason." 

He  meant  they  had  both  come  to  see  her.  But  what 
she  thought  he  meant  was  that  he,  too,  had  heard — heard 
that  Harston  had  left  England  with  Alma  Orilia!  She 
waited  for  his  next  words — hung  upon  them.  His 
sympathy  would  be  sweet,  but  from  him  she  wanted 
more  than  sympathy.  He  went  on  smoking;  found  the 
cigarette  was  not  so  much  to  his  liking  as  he  thought, 
although  that  may  not  have  been  the  fault  of  the 
cigarette,  made  another  observation  about  it,  and  then 
pitched  it  into  the  fire. 

"  I  suppose  he  imagines  himself  in  love  with  you." 

She  stared  at  him  in  utter  surprise,  speechless. 

"Who?    What?" 

"  He  has  probably  a  lascivious  and  beastly  imagination. 
You  are  impulsive  and  practically  unprotected.  ..." 

The  he  did  know. 


CONCERT   PITCH  295 

"  Practically  unprotected,"  he  repeated.  "  Albert  isn't 
here,  although,  of  course,  he  ought  to  be." 

"  I  don't  want  Albert.     I  don't  want  anybody." 

"  You  have  never  been  able  to  take  care  of  yourself. 
You  are  like  a  child  playing  with  matches;  you  don't 
know  your  danger." 

Her  nerves  were  fretted,  fretted  almost  to  breaking- 
point.  What  she  had  wanted  and  expected  from  him 
was  .  .  .  was  .  .  .  she  did  not  word  it,  but  "  com- 
forting "  was  the  word.  Instead,  he  was  blaming  her  be- 
cause Harston  had  left  her,  because  she  had  been  unable 
to  take  care  of  him  or  of  herself.  She  had  never  been 
able  to  bear  injustice;  her  hot  heart  swelled  in  resentment. 

"  It  isn't  true.  I  have  taken  care  of  myself  and  of 
him  too." 

She  was  speaking  of  Harston.  He  was  thinking  of 
Peter  Graham,  whom  he  had  found  there  at  twelve  o'clock 
in  the  morning,  the  signs  of  spent  emotion  in  his  pallor 
and  dark  eyes  reflected  in  hers. 

"  For  the  moment,  I  daresay.'' 

For  all  his  cool  words  and  manner  Waldo  was  hardly 
less  agitated  than  she.  "  I  suppose  he  has  only  left  you 
for  a  time.  I  know  the  kind  of  fellow  he  is." 

"  He  is  not  coming  back  at  all." 

"  Don't  you  believe  it.  He  will  make  an  appeal  to  you ; 
I  shouldn't  wonder  if  he  wept.  You  are  as  soft  as  a 
lobster  without  its  shell.  I  shall  find  you  drying  his 
tears.  ..." 

"  I  shall  do  what  I  think  right." 

"  You  have  the  heart  of  a  child  and  the  knowledge  of 
the  world  of  a  field-mouse.  ..." 

"  I  wish  you  had  not  come  here  at  all,"  she  burst  out, 
bitterly  and  utterly  disappointed  and  unnerved. 

"  Of  course  you  do." 

He  was  labouring  under  an  excess  of  feeling,  accom- 
panied by  an  utter  incapacity  to  express  it.  That  Peter 
Graham  should  be  making  love  to  her  was  an  unspeakable 
outrage;  that  she  should  defend  him,  be  his  advocate, 
was  intolerable.  In  the  misunderstanding,  both  of  them 


296  CONCERT    PITCH 

lost  their  temper,  and  said  absurd  things.  What  they 
were  he  was  never  quite  sure,  nor  was  she.  There  was 
something  about  "orientalism  "  that  she  did  not  in  the 
least  understand  but  resented  the  more  passionately,  and 
more  about  her  childishness. 

"  You  only  came  here  to  say  unkind  things  to  me." 
He  did  not  know  anything  about  the  trouble  she  was 
in,  of  Harston's  defection  or  her  sensitiveness  about  it. 
"  You  are  trying  to  make  me  lose  my  temper." 
"  Well,  it  has  never  been  a  difficult  job,  has  it?  " 
She  burst  into  tears  and  went  on  incoherently  to  up- 
braid him  for  what  he  had  said  and  left  unsaid.     The 
storm  of  her  anger  played  about  him  like  forked  light- 
ning.    He  seemed  to  see  in  its  flashes  -the  justification 
for  the  jealousy  that  was  shaking  him. 

She  rushed  out  of  the  room  when  her  fury  had  abated, 
and  he  waited  a  long  time  for  her  to  come  back.  But 
when  she  did  not  come  back  he  went  away.  He  was 
not  surprised  that  she  was  angry  with  him  for  having 
pointed  out  that  Peter  Graham  was  making  love  to  her; 
when  he  thought  it  over  he  was  rather  glad.  To  him 
she  was  so  much  more  than  beautiful  or  attractive.  He 
saw  her  young  soul  white  behind  her  lovely  eyes,  and 
that  all  her  spirit  shone.  He  knew  her  loyalty  and 
courage,  the  fearlessness  with  which  she  would  face 
danger.  He  had  but  meant  to  warn  her. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

THE  full  force  of  her  loneliness  broke  upon  her  that 
afternoon,  when  Waldo  had  left  her  without  a 
word  of  comfort,  and  she  had  nothing  to  do  but  think. 
She  sat  over  the  fire  and  thought  about  her  life.  From 
beginning  to  end  it  had  been  a  failure;  she  thought 
it  would  have  been  far  better  had  she  died  with  her 
mother.  Her  cruel  childhood  came  back  to  her,  her 
stepmother's  dislike,  her  father's  indifference,  her  own 
fits  of  temper.  Perhaps  it  was  true,  too,  that  she  had 
had  a  bad  influence  on  Albert.  There  was  nothing 
good  or  strong  about  him,  and  he  had  left  England 
under  a  cloud.  She  began  to  cry  presently,  thinking 
how  alone  she  was — what  a  muddle  she  had  made  of 
everything. 

She  went  up  into  the  nursery  later,  and  carried  the 
baby  off  to  take  his  first  sleep  in  her  arms,  unheeding  the 
nurse's  remonstrances. 

If  he  cuddled  down  with  his  curly  head  against  her 
heart,  she  might  find  solace.  But  baby,  too,  disappointed 
her  this  evening.  He  had  a  slight  cold  and  was  fidgety ; 
perhaps  he  missed  his  bed.  She  took  him  back  to  nurse, 
feeling  cross  with  him,  as  she  had  been  with  Waldo. 
But  already  she  was  sorry  she  had  lost  her  temper 
with  Waldo,  and  was  wondering  if  indeed  he  knew,  if 
he  understood. 

How  long  the  evening  seemed!  And  all  her  days, 
297 


298  CONCERT    PITCH 

she  supposed,  would  be  the  same.  She  could  settle 
neither  to  needlework  nor  to  reading.  Were  all  her 
days  and  evenings  to  be  like  this?  It  was  not  true 
that  it  was  her  own  fault,  and  that  she  could  not  take 
care  of  herself.  She  had  taken  care  not  only  of  herself, 
but  of  Harston,  been  a  good  wife  to  him;  prayed  for 
help,  subordinated  herself,  her  baby,  everything,  to  his 
well-being.  That  he  had  left  her  like  this  was  a  punish- 
ment, nevertheless ;  a  punishment,  because,  notwithstand- 
ing all  that  she  had  done,  she  had  not  loved  him;  he 
must  have  realized  some  lack  in  her.  She  went  to  bed 
early,  feeling  very  forlorn,  crying  herself  to  sleep.  Her 
last  thought  was  that,  when  her  stepmother  heard  of  her 
position,  she  would  exclaim  with  satisfaction :  "  I  always 
said  no  one  would  live  in  the  same  house  with  her." 

She  did  not  know  how  long  she  had  been  asleep,  but 
she  woke  with  a  start. 

"  Oh,  ma'am,  do  wake !  do  come !  Oh,  ma'am,  he's 
so  bad.  ..." 

She  was  out  of  bed  in  a  second,  her  heart  thumping. 

"I'm  coming.    What  is  it?    Wait!" 

She  was  at  the  door  in  her  nightgown,  not  staying  to 
put  on  a  dressing-gown,  get  her  slippers,  or  turn  up 
the  light. 

"  What  is  it  ?  what's  the  matter  ?  " 

"  It's  the  croup,  I  think." 

Now  she  was  flying  along  the  narrow  passage.  The 
nursery  door  was  open ;  a  night-light  burned.  Cook  was 
sitting  with  the  choking,  struggling  baby,  a  strange  figure 
of  a  cook,  fat  and  unwieldy  in  her  cotton  dress  put  on 
hastily,  unbuttoned  over  her  nightgown,  a  grey  wisp 
of  hair  falling  over  her  flaccid  cheeks,  but  a  good  kind 
old  cookie  for  all  that,  crying  and  distraught. 

"  It's  the  croup,  that's  what  it  is,  the  croup.  Oh,  the 
poor  dear ! " 

In  a  moment  Manuella  had  caught  him  up,  and  he  was 
gasping  and  fighting  for  breath  in  his  mummy's  arms. 
She  was  questioning,  exclaiming,  crying  with  him.  He 
could  not  get  his  breath,  was  almost  black  in  the  face. 


CONCERT    PITCH  299 

She  did  not  know  what  to  do,  none  of  them  knew  what 
to  do.  It  was  maddening  to  be  so  helpless. 

"  I've  heard  that  a  hot  bath  ...  get  a  hot  bath." 

"  Or  a  sponge  of  hot  water  to  the  back  of  the  neck  .  .  ." 

"  For  God's  sake  get  a  sponge." 

"  And  there's  ipecac.  Poor  dear !  if  he  could  bring  it 
up,  if  we  could  get  him  to  be  sick.  ..." 

They  were  doing  all  they  knew.  Nurse  had  called 
cook  first;  they  had  hesitated  to  send  for  mistress, 
"  knowing  she  was  in  trouble."  Manuella  hated  them  for 
knowing  it. 

In  any  emergency  the  finer  faculties  emerge.  There 
was  now  no  memory  of  trouble  save  this.  She  knew 
little  of  illness,  but  mother-instinct  guided  her,  and  soon 
the  bath  was  ready.  The  hot  sponge  proved  valuable; 
a  weak  mixture  of  mustard  and  water  served  in  place  of 
the  absent  ipecacuanha.  By  the  time  cook  had  dressed 
hurriedly,  and  gone  out  to  seek  a  doctor,  his  services  were 
less  urgently  needed. 

When  she  tardily  returned  with  a  sleepy  and  unwilling 
person  retrieved  from  a  neighbouring  dispensary,  baby 
was  no  longer  nearly  black  in  the  face  and  struggling  for 
breath ;  he  was  very  white  and  exhausted,  he  seemed 
to  have  shrunk  beyond  recognition,  to  have  fallen  in  at 
the  temples  and  to  be  but  a  simulacrum  of  himself,  but  he 
was  no  longer  engaged  in  that  terrible  fight.  He  was 
drowsy,  inclined  to  sleep. 

This  local  doctor  in  the  stress  of  his  own  fight  for  a 
living  had  forgotten  what  little  science  he  ever  had.  A 
man  experienced  in  filling  death-certificates,  capable  of 
vaccinating,  or  seeing  a  maternity  case  through  if  there 
should  be  no  complications.  "  Never  interfere  with 
Nature,"  was  his  easy  maxim.  To  do  him  justice,  we 
must  admit  he  rarely  made  the  attempt.  He  hated 
coming  out  at  night ;  nothing  short  of  cookie's  dynamic 
energy  would  have  dragged  him  from  his  bed.  But  she 
rang  and  rang,  and  shouted  up  the  tube  that  led  to  his 
bedroom.  He  was  overtired  with  the  many  hours'  work 
that  he  had  done  so  perfunctorily;  the  work  itself  had 


300  CONCERT   PITCH 

lost  interest  for  him,  so  long  had  he  prescribed  the  same 
formulae,  given  the  same  medicines.  It  mattered  so  little 
from  which  cask  he  drew  the  ingredients.  When  the 
day's  work  was  over  he  drank  whisky  and  water  hot, 
and  slept  heavily. 

Now,  here  he  was,  a  little  fuddled,  and  coarsely  jocular. 

"  You  know  my  charge  is  ten.  shillings  if  I  am  called 
out  of  bed  in  the  middle  of  the  night,"  was  the  first 
greeting.  When  he  was  able  to  realize  that  it  was  not  a 
club  patient,  but  a  lady  who  sat  before  him  with  an 
exhausted  baby  on  her  lap,  he  tried  to  pull  himself  to- 
gether, to  be  of  some  use.  He  was  not  a  villain,  not 
even  a  drunkard,  he  was  only  tired  and  worn  out  from 
working  under  impossible  conditions  to  make  a  living  for 
his  own  wife  and  children.  He  approved  all  that  had 
been  done.  But  Manuella,  realizing  quickly  what  manner 
of  doctor  had  been  brought  to  her,  would  not  let  him 
approach  the  child  for  examination,  lest  he  should  disturb 
the  quiet  into  which  the  little  sufferer  had  fallen.  Im- 
petuously she  bade  him  stay  where  he  was. 

Because  she  was  so  beautiful  in  the  blue  dressing-gown 
they  had  thrown  round  her,  he  was  amenable,  staring  at 
her,  hardly  seeing  the  patient.  From  his  safe  distance  he 
asked  the  history  of  the  illness.  Manuella,  cuddling  the 
boy,  trying  to  answer  the  doctor's  conventional  ques- 
tions, remembered  how  little  heed  she  had  paid  to  baby's 
fretting,  or  his  symptoms  of  a  cold.  In  her  selfishness 
she  had  thought  of  nothing  but  her  own  troubles. 

"  I  didn't  notice ;  tell  him,  nurse.  But  it  is  over  now, 
the  attack  has  quite  passed ;  he  has  fallen  asleep.  I  won't 
have  him  awakened." 

This  dispensary  doctor  had  rough  methods. 

"  Another  attack  will  be  coming  on  again,  when  he 
has  gathered  the  strength  for  it.  From  the  look  of  him, 
he  hasn't  much  stamina.  ..." 

She  looked  up  indignantly.  "  He  has  never  had  a  day's 
illness." 

"  He  may  pull  through,  but  it's  always  a  toss-up  with 
the  first  attack  of  croup.  Twelve  months  old  ?  Teething, 


CONCERT    PITCH  301 

too,  I  suppose?  There  is  nothing  to  be  done.  I'm  sure 
I  don't  know  why  I  was  dragged  out  of  bed.  Nature,  you 
know ;  you'll  have  to  leave  him  to  Nature.  Keep  hot 
water  going;  don't  give  him  anything  but  milk." 

He  was  really  trying  to  remember  all  he  knew  about 
croup.  He  seemed  to  remember  that  the  Madonna  was 
fair;  but  in  her  blue  dressing-gown  this  young  woman 
looked  like  the  Madonna.  He  could  not  classify  her. 
His  patients  were  mostly  drawn  from  one  of  two  classes, 
and  she  was  not  of  either.  He  would  know  more  if  he 
saw  her  husband,  a  man  is  generally  more  easy  to  classify 
than  a  woman 

"  Where  is  your  husband?    What  is  he?  " 

There  is  not  much  time  to  be  tactful  or  delicate  in  a 
dispensary  practice. 

"  He  ought  to  be  here,  you  know." 

Her  heart  ran  coM  when  he  had  spoken  of  another 
attack.  She  held  the  child  always  closer  in  her  arms, 
feeling  his  frailty,  anguished  lest  he  should  be  again 
convulsed. 

"  Her  husband's  abroad,"  answered  cook  to  the  doc- 
tor's question,  whilst  Manuella  only  held  the  child  more 
closely,  and  thought  wildly  how  she  was  to  save  him. 

"Oh,  abroad,  is  he?" 

The  doctor  wondered  whether  she  was  married.  He 
saw  a  good  deal  of  irregular  life  in  the  course  of  his 
cheap  practice.  He  was  sorry  for  her,  but  it  was  three 
or  four  o'clock  now,  and  he  wanted  his  bed. 

"  Well,  I  shouldn't  worry  about  him  any  more  until  it 
comes  on.  Put  him  back  in  his  cot  and  cover  him  up. 
I'll  send  you  round  some  medicine  in  the  morning.  I 
daresay  I'll  manage  to  see  him  in  the  course  of  the  day." 

He  could  never  have  imagined  how  she  resented  his 
staying  there  and  everything  he  said,  how  anxious  she 
was  that  he  should  be  gone.  She  hated  the  man.  This 
was  no  healer,  no  helper. 

When  the  front  door  slammed  behind  him  the  sense  of 
hurry  came  upon  her — the  need  for  immediate  action.  If 
it  were  true  another  attack  was  threatening  she  must 


302  CONCERT    PITCH 

be  ready  to  meet  it.  Her  heart  almost  broke  in  tender- 
ness over  the  baby. 

'  There  must  be  something  to  be  done,  something  that 
dreadful  man  doesn't  know,"  she  said  desperately.  It 
was  now  she  wanted  a  friend's  help.  What  did  pride  or 
anything  matter?  Waldo  had  said  if  she  ever  needed  a 
friend  she  was  to  call  upon  him ;  she  was  desperate  in  her 
need.  The  baby  started  in  her  arms,  cried,  coughed. 

"  Go  to  the  nearest  telephone  office.  Find  Lord  Lys- 
sons'  number ;  he  lives  somewhere  in  the  '  Albany.'  Tell 
him  baby  is  ill,  and  I  want  the  name  and  address  of  that 
doctor  he  sent  to  me  once.  He  must  come  quickly  ..." 
her  voice  broke. 

That  it  was  the  doctor,  and  not  Lord  Lyssons,  who  was 
needed  quickly,  cookie  might  have  misunderstood.  She 
was  very  fat  and  had  exhausted  her  intelligence  on  the 
hot  water  and  mustard.  She  got  her  message  through, 
not  to  Lord  Lyssons,  who  at  five  in  the  morning  was  not 
yet  awake,  but  to  his  sleepy  valet,  who  delivered  it  muti- 
lated, but  fairly  intelligible,  an  hour  or  two  later.  How 
exhaustively  Waldo  cursed  that  considerate  valet  goes 
without  saying.  He  dressed  in  record  time,  and  was 
thundering  at  Tom  Shorter's  door  before  that  eminent 
physician  was  out  of  bed. 

Meanwhile,  back  at  home,  cookie  had  the  blinds  up  and 
fires  going,  the  house  in  order,  and  breakfast  on  the  way. 
Manuella  was  able  to  lay  the  child  down,  although  re- 
luctantly, whilst  she  dressed.  She  drank  her  coffee 
watching,  her  eyes  on  the  cot,  every  sound  or  stir,  almost 
every  laboured  uneven  breath,  bringing  her  heart  to  a 
standstill,  driving  the  last  faint  colour  from  her  face. 
Cook  had  got  her  message  through  to  that  little  doctor 
who  was  a  healer,  but  how  long  he  was  in  coming — how 
long !  Before  he  came  she  was  agonized  again  with  that 
choking  cry  and  cough  to  which  the  baby  awoke.  She 
was  quicker  this  time  with  her  remedies,  but  could  not 
but  see  how  frail  he  had  so  suddenly  grown,  and  shrunken 
about  the  ten-Hes.  his  eyes  dull.  She  was  holding  him 
in  his  bath  when  they  came  in,  but  she  was  very  near  the 


CONCERT    PITCH  303 

end  of  her  own  powers  of  endurance.  The  baby  suffered, 
struggled,  gasped  for  breath  and  choked ;  she  found  it 
unbearable  to  see  him  suffer. 

The  two  men  came  together  into  the  room.  Dr. 
Shorter,  without  a  moment's  hesitation,  took  the  child 
from  her,  lifting  it  out  of  the  useless  bath,  wrapping  it 
in  the  blanket,  taking  immediate  charge. 

"  She's  about  at  the  end  of  her  tether.  You  look  after 
her,"  he  said  to  Waldo.  "  Lay  her  on  the  floor  quickly, 
she's  going  to  faint." 

He  mastered  the  whole  situation;  all  they  had  to  do 
was  to  carry  out  his  instructions,  get  the  things  for  which 
he  asked,  constitute  themselves  his  lay  helpers.  Man- 
uella's  attack  of  faintness  lasted  a  very  few  seconds.  The 
strain  had  suddenly  become  insupportable,  the  swaying 
room  grew  black  before  her  eyes.  The  floor  and  the 
draught  from  the  open  door,  with  the  knowledge  that  the 
child  was  in  safe  hands,  revived  her.  She  would  have 
held  on  if  the  little  doctor  had  not  taken  the  baby  from 
her  arms.  She  said  so,  and  afterwards  Dr.  Shorter  told 
her  it  was  probably  true.  In  quite  a  few  minutes  the 
faintness  had  gone;  she  was  up,  and  the  readiest  of  his 
helpers.  It  was  extraordinary  how  the  little  man  brought 
calm  with  him,  and  confidence  ...  if  not  confidence,  at 
least  hope. 

Waldo  went  backwards  and  forwards  to  the  chemist ; 
the  weakness  had  to  be  fought  as  well  as  the  croup.  All 
Tom  Shorter's  energies  were  in  the  fight  now,  for  it  came 
to  a  fight,  a  fight  to  the  finish.  He  was  not  going  to  let 
the  child  go,  but  it  needed  all  he  knew,  every  feint  and 
dodge  to  keep  him  here;  probably  no  other  man  would 
have  succeeded. 

Waldo,  going  backwards  and  forwards  to  the  chemist, 
backwards  and  forwards  to  the  telephone,  for  they  must 
know  in  Harley  Street  what  it  was  detained  the  consult- 
ant from  his  full  waiting-room,  tried  to  keep  Manuella's 
courage  going.  All  his  mind  was  in  that  small  nursery, 
concentrated  on  the  girl  (she  would  always  be  a  girl  to 
him)  with  the  tragic  face,  who  was  watching  her  dying 


304  CONCERT   PITCH 

baby.  He  thought  it  was  dying,  although  he  kept  telling 
her  the  contrary. 

"  You  .  .  .  you  wouldn't  like  a  parson  ?  "  he  asked 
her,  abruptly  when  Tom  Shorter  gave  the  first  in- 
jection of  strychnine,  the  oxygen  beginning  to  fail  of 
effect. 

For  the  moment  she  failed  to  grasp  his  meaning,  look- 
ing at  him  with  those  sombre,  unseeing  eyes.  He  went 
on  hurriedly :  "  I  don't  know  how  you  feel  about  it,  it 
can't  do  any  harm.  He  ...  he  hasn't  been  christened, 
you  know  ..." 

She  tried  to  collect  her  thoughts. 

"  I  think  I  had  better  fetch  one.  Shall  I  ?  It  can't 
do  any  harm." 

If  she  found  the  baby's  sufferings  insupportable,  he 
was  feeling  hers  no  less  acutely.  He  did  not  know  what 
to  say,  and  none  of  the  hesitant  words  that  came  to  him 
were  the  words  he  wanted. 

He  wanted  to  ask  Tom  Shorter  whether  it  would  not 
be  as  well  to  have  the  baby  christened  at  once,  but  he 
could  not  speak  to  him  without  Manuella  hearing.  He 
lowered  his  voice  as  much  as  possible. 

Dr.  Shorter  had  no  opinion  of  religious  ceremonies,  and 
shared  the  average  scientist's  neglect  of  observances,  but 
his  reply  was  quite  unhesitating: 

"  You  will  have  to  hurry." 

The  paroxysms  of  coughing  were  under  control,  the 
forehead  sweating;  the  child  retained  the  injected  nour- 
ishment. But  it  was  blue  about  the  lips,  the  extremities 
were  cold ;  no  one  but  Tom  Shorter  would  have  held  on 
to  his  work. 

Lord  Lyssons  was  quicker  and  more  successful  with  a 
clergyman  than  cook  had  been  with  a  doctor.  The 
athletic  curate  he  captured  was  eager  for  his  job,  and 
hardly  waited  to  hear  it  explained. 

"Christen  a  dying  baby?  Certainly.  Half  a  jiff! 
Can  you  wait  until  I  change  my  clothes  ?  "  He  had 
been  training  a  local  division  of  the  Boy  Scouts  when 
Waldo  encountered  him,  and  was  hurrying  home. 


CONCERT   PITCH  305 

"  I'm  afraid  there's  no  time  to  be  lost." 

The  athletic  curate  was  as  reverent  in  his  flannels  as  he 
would  have  been  in  black.  The  brief  ceremony  lost 
nothing  in  his  reading.  It  was  not  a  new  scene  for  him — 
the  dying  child,  the  half-unconscious  mother,  even  the 
little  doctor,  who  said,  under  his  breath :  "  Cut  it  as 
short  as  you  can,  and  don't  stand  where  I  can't  watch 
him."  When  he  had  baptized  the  baby  he  said  to 
Waldo: 

"  May  I  say  the  prayers  for  the  dying  ?  "  Before  he 
had  been  answered  he  was  down  on  his  knees.  Then 
Waldo  moved  over  and  stood  by  Manuella.  "  It  can't 
do  any  harm,"  he  said  again  apologetically. 

It  was  strange  to  see  him  kneeling  too,  presently,  side 
by  side  with  the  young  clergyman.  She  had  no  stub- 
bornness of  unfaith  to  conquer,  only  indifference,  and 
after  a  moment's  hesitation  she  knelt  with  them. 

There  was  silence  in  the  disordered  nursery — no  sound 
now  but  the  fervent  prayer.  Dr.  Shorter  thought,  per- 
haps a  little  contemptuously,  that  it  might  have  been  a 
scene  out  of  a  novel  by  Hall  Caine.  During  the  prayer  he 
sterilized  the  tube  and  prepared  another  injection.  He 
never  doubted  it  was  that  last  injection,  and  not  the 
prayer,  that  brought  the  pulse  back  and  set  the  heart 
beating  again.  The  young  clergyman  said  a  word  of 
sympathy  to  Manuella,  who  seemed  as  if  she  had  not 
heard,  and  Lyssons  followed  him  out  of  the  room,  return- 
ing quickly. 

"  Seen  him  off  the  premises?  Now  just  keep  absolutely 
quiet  for  five  minutes  if  you  can."  But  the  five  minutes 
were  not  up,  and  Manuella  had  not  stirred,  when  he  said, 
in  a  voice  of  triumph :  "  Come  over  here." 

It  was  to  Manuella  the  doctor  spoke,  and  she  obeyed 
him  quickly.  "  Put  your  finger  there,  on  his  pulse. 
What  do  you  think  of  that?  He  has  come  back,  he'll 
pull  through  now.  Another  minute  and  he'll  open  his 
eyes.  .  .  .  Good  Heavens !  what's  the  woman  crying 
for?" 

She  broke  down  then,  but  not  until  afterwards  did  she 


3o6  CONCERT    PITCH 

know  Waldo's  arms  were  about  her,  and  that  it  was  on 
his  shoulder  she  was  crying. 

Tom  Shorter  was  so  proud  of  what  he  had  achieved 
that  he  wanted  an  audience.  That  was  his  fault,  if  he 
had  a  fault.  After  he  had  fought  death  at  close  quarters, 
such  close  quarters  as  this  had  been,  and  won  his  battle, 
he  was  apt  to  look  round  the  arena  for  applause.  Waldo 
would  have  applauded,  but  he  had  his  arms  about 
Manuella. 

"  Oh !  my  sweet,  don't  cry.  I'm  holding  you ;  it  is  all 
right,  the  little  chap  is  going  to  stay  with  us."  He  hardly 
knew  whether  he  said  the  words  or  thought  them. 
"  Thank  God  you  sent  for  me !  How  can  I  let  you  go 
again  ?  "  That,  at  least,  he  did  not  say,  although  he  held 
her  against  his  breast,  laid  his  face  on  her  hair.  The 
tension  was  but  for  a  moment ;  she  disengaged  herself 
quickly  and  dried  her  eyes.  What  had  come  to  them 
had  always  been  there. 

There  was  still  much  to  be  done.  Dr.  Shorter  insisted 
upon  a  trained  nurse  being  sent  for  at  once,  one  of  his 
own  choosing;  he  paid  not  the  slightest  attention  to 
Manuella's  protest  that  she  was  quite  able  to  nurse  the 
child  herself  with  Mary's  help  and  cook's. 

"  There  is  some  bronchitis,  the  distance  between  the 
bronchial  tubes  and  the  lungs  isn't  worth  speaking  about. 
We  might  have  pneumonia  to  fight.  He  has  got  to  be 
watched  every  hour,  and  it  needs  a  trained  eye." 

As  he  talked,  he  was  putting  up  his  case  of  drugs, 
clearing  up  matters  generally,  giving  instructions.  When 
he  was  saying  good-bye  to  Manuella,  almost  casually,  he 
asked,  as  the  dispensary  doctor  had  done : 

"  Where  is  his  father  ?  If  I  were  you  I  should  send  for 
him.  There  must  be  a  certain  amount  of  anxiety  for  the 
next  few  days.  Where  is  he  ?  " 

Perhaps  the  moment  when  she  cried  on  Waldo's  shoul- 
der had  not  escaped  him,  although  he  was  occupied  with 
the  baby.  What  was  Lord  Lyssons  doing  here?  Dr. 
Shorter  was  a  trained  observer  with  an  excellent  mem- 
ory. She  flushed  when  he  repeated : 


CONCERT   PITCH  307 

"  Send  for  your  husband,"  and  started  to  answer,  but 
shut  her  lips. 

"  Anything  wrong  between  them  ?  "  Dr.  Shorter  asked 
Waldo  as  they  went  downstairs. 

"  Nothing  that  I  know  of,"  the  other  answered  in- 
differently. But,  of  course,  he  was  not  indifferent. 

He  went  straight  back  to  the  nursery  when  the  doctor 
left.  The  baby  was  sleeping,  and  Manuella  was  for  t1  e 
moment  seated  idly  by  his  cot,  looking  forlorn.  He 
beckoned  her  out  of  the  room. 

"  He  is  all  right  for  the  present,  Shorter  is  more  than 
satisfied.  Nurse  will  call  out  to  you  if  he  wakes.  Come 
down  and  see  about  getting  me  some  lunch ;  I  missed  my 
breakfast  on  your  account,  you  know." 

He  put  a  gentle,  familiar  arm  through  hers,  made  her 
go  downstairs  with  him  and  sit  in  the  dining-room  whilst 
he  ate,  making  her  eat  with  him.  Afterwards  in  the 
sitting-room  he  forgot  to  be  whimsical.  She  looked  so 
young,  so  unhappy ;  it  was  so  long  since  he  had  held  her 
in  his  arms,  and  they  ached  for  her.  He  did  not  know 
how  it  was  he  found  himself  on  the  sofa,  holding  her. 

He  really  loved  her  in  the  best  way,  in  the  only  way, 
in  every  way;  but  she  had  been  in  trouble,  had  sent  for 
him,  clung  to  him.  His  own  courage  was  a  little  broken, 
and  he  held  her  close. 

"It  has  been  hard?" 

"  I  thought  you  were  not  sorry.  ..." 

"  Not  sorry !  My  God !  I  don't  know  how  I  have  borne 
it.  ...  "  Silence  fell  between  them. 

She  was  overwrought,  lonely ;  the  tenderness  in  his 
voice  moved  her,  she  had  loved  him  always.  The  move- 
ment came  from  her,  she  knew  it  afterwards,  but  his  re- 
sponse was  quick.  Now  their  lips  came  together,  and 
clung  .  .  .  and  again  she  was  ashamed,  hiding  her  face. 

"  I  only  want  to  be  comforted." 

Her  voice  was  stifled. 

"  I  only  wnnt  to  cherish  you." 

Silence  n^ain. 

"  Why  difln't  you  comfort  me  yesterday?" 


3o8  CONCERT   PITCH 

"  Yesterday,  to-day,  every  day  I  will  do  so." 

What  was  he  saying  ?  He  only  knew  that  his  arms  held 
her,  his  lips  still  throbbed  from  meeting  hers,  her  head 
was  on  his  shoulder,  and  his  face  among  her  hair,  against 
her  soft  cheek. 

"Did  I  disappoint  you  yesterday?" 

"  I  was  very  unhappy." 

"  Because  I  scolded  you — did  I  scold  you  ?  Dear  heart, 
I  was  only  trying  to  take  care  of  you." 

"  How  did  you  know  ?  " 

"  Know  what  ?  That  I  wanted  to  take  care  of  you  ? 
Since  I  met  you  on  the  boat,  your  hair  flying  in  the  wind, 
your  eyes  glowing.  ..." 

"  I  mean  about  Harston." 

"  What  about  Harston  ?    He  didn't  exist." 

"  You  know  he  has  left  me." 

"  What!    Left  you,  left  you  ?  " 

His  arms  fell  from  her,  their  startled  faces  gazed  at 
each  other. 

"  But  didn't  you  know  it  yesterday?" 

"It  isn't  true,  it  isn't  possible?" 

"  That  is  why.  ..." 

She  would  have  sought  the  shelter  of  his  shoulder 
again,  but  he  got  up  abruptly. 

"  He  went  away  yesterday  with  Alma  Orilia.  She  sent 
Mr.  Graham  to  tell  me.  I  thought  you  knew." 

"  You  thought  I  knew  ?  " 

"  You  said  ..." 

But  both  of  them  had  forgotten  what  he  said,  they 
only  remembered  that  she  had  lost  her  temper  over 
it. 

He  walked  up  and  down  the  room  whilst  she  told  him — 
told  him  every  word  Peter  Graham  had  said  to  her.  Then 
fighting  for  his  self-command,  he  began  questioning  her, 
even  cross-questioning  her. 

"  But  if  this  is  true  .  .  .  ?  " 

He  could  not  help  his  spirit  leaping  to  it.  She  belonged 
to  him  by  every  right — the  right  of  love  and  his  tender- 
ness for  her.  He  told  her  so,  held  her  to  him  again, 


CONCERT    PITCH  309 

looked  deep  into  her  eyes,  behind  which  he  saw  the  white 
soul  shining. 

"  If  this  is  true  .  .  . !  " 

And  then,  all  at  once,  because  at  the  bottom  of  his 
heart  lay  his  chivalry,  he  left  off  thinking  of  himself  and 
began  to  think  only  of  her.  What  was  best?  He  saw 
quickly,  and  unhappily  he  saw  clearly.  They  might 
wade  knee-deep  in  mud,  he  and  she,  and  all  of  them, 
and  in  the  end  find  themselves  swimming  in  cleaner  water. 
He  was  her  guardian  as  well  as  her  lover.  Again  he  put 
her  away  from  him. 

"Let  me  think." 

They  were  the  same  words  Peter  Graham  had  used. 

"  No,  let  us  leave  off  thinking." 

She  was  so  near  him  that  his  arm  went  about  her 
perforce. 

"  It  has  made  me  feel  free." 

"  And  freedom  for  you  means  my  tyranny." 

"  You  used  to  treat  me  like  a  child.  I  have  grown  so 
tired  of  being  treated  like  a  woman.  Take  care  of  me  a 
little.  I  am  lonely  without  you.  ..." 

"  Dear  heart,  you  will  always  be  a  child." 

"  I  wasn't  a  child  when  .  .  .  when  ..." 

"  Tell  me." 

"  When  you  kissed  me  .  .  .  that  evening.  It  seems 
centuries  ago,  when  you  said  you  .  .  .  you  always 
kissed  girls." 

"  Did  I  say  that  ?  Do  you  want  to  hear  ?  Never  in 
my  life  have  I  kissed  a  woman  or  girl  as  I  kissed 
you  that  night,  as  I  kiss  you  now.  You  believe 
it?" 

"  I  want  to  believe  it." 

"  It  all  went  wrong  between  us.    Fool  that  I  was !  " 

"  But  it  is  coming  right  now.  Harston  never  cared  for 
me,  only  for  his  music.  Nor  I  for  him.  Now  that  he  has 
left  me  ..." 

Again  he  loosened  his  arms  about  her. 

There  are  so  many  ways  of  love,  and  in  all  of  them  he 
loved  her.  And  now  he  knew  that  she  cared  for  him,  he 


310  CONCERT    PITCH 

wanted  to  take  care  of  her  more  perfectly.  No  one  else 
could  do  it,  for  no  one  else  understood  her.  If  it  were 
true  that  her  husband  had  left  her,  a  way  out  might  be 
found,  a  muddy  way  for  slender  feet,  and  one  he  could 
not  easily  see  her  treading. 

And  her  story  had  left  his  mind  unconvinced. 

"  You  have  not  had  a  word  from  him  ?  " 

"  Only  the  message  Mr.  Graham  brought  me." 

"  That  he  would  come  back  ..." 

She  was  hurt  by  his  change  of  tone,  almost  more  than 
hurt. 

He  hardly  knew  how  to  go  on. 

"  You  hadn't  had  a  row  ?  " 

"  Not  a  word." 

His  speech  slowed  down,  his  mind  seemed  now  to  be 
keeping  better  pace  with  it,  and  took  a  strengthened  leap 
toward  the  truth. 

"  I  can't  believe  he  has  left  you,  not  like  this,  not  in 
this  way.  It's  incredible." 

She  could  not  follow  the  working  of  his  mind;  she 
was  wounded,  silenced,  thrown  back  upon  herself,  her 
confidence  rejected. 

"  Wasn't  the  new  opera  ready  ?  Didn't  he  say  they 
were  to  meet  some  one  about  it  ?  " 

"  He  said  they  were  going  to  meet  Stollmont  in  Genoa. 
But,  of  course,  that  was  only  an  excuse." 

"  If  ...  if  he  had  not  gone  with  her,  not  in  the 
way  you  think,  but  only  about  his  opera?  You  say  that 
young  fellow,  Tommy  Traddles,  when  he  came  for  his 
things,  said  it  was  business."  He  was  speaking  slowly, 
thinking  and  speaking  at  the  same  time. 

"  Gerald  would  say  anything  Harston  told  him." 

She  felt  that  he  was  trying  to  make  excuses  for  Hars- 
ton, imagined  that,  because  he  was  no  longer  kissing  her, 
his  sympathy  had  ebbed ;  and  she  was,  as  always,  quickly 
resentful. 

Waldo,  so  full  of  his  love  and  care  for  her,  never 
doubted  that  she  understood.  He  said  he  had  to  think, 
and  could  do  so  better  alone.  She  had  had  a  disturbed 


CONCERT    PITCH  311 

night,  looked  pale  and  worn,  she  had  better  go  upstairs 
and  lie  down,  and  deny  herself  to  visitors.  He  went  away 
quite  soon;  not  kissing  her  again,  nor  even  touching  her 
hand. 

The  next  day  and  the  next  visitors  came  to  that  little 
house  in  Circus  Road,  everyone  came  but  Lord  Lyssons. 
There  came  Peter  Graham,  full  of  concern  at  the  baby's 
illness,  extraordinarily  tactful,  and  staying  less  than  five 
minutes ;  Oscar  Des  Vceux  with  his  wife,  full  of  chagrin, 
explanation  and  curiosity ;  Lulu  Marston,  warm-hearted, 
quite  incredulous,  full  of  sympathy  and  quotations  from 
Russell. 

"  Russell  says  I  am  not  to  let  you  stay  alone  here, 
thinking  all  sorts  of  absurd  things.  He  is  quite  sure  it 
is  all  a  mistake.  And  Russell  is  never  wrong.  He  says 
you  are  to  come  to  us  on  a  long  visit.  Now,  just  go  and 
put  your  things  on.  I've  got  the  motor.  You'll  feel 
as  different  as  possible  when  you  are  up  at  Gloucester 
Terrace." 

Lulu  had  on  the  biggest  hat  Manuella  had  ever  seen, 
with  more  ospreys,  a  veil  that  was  neither  on  nor  off, 
a  dress  of  the  fashion  of  the  year  after  next,  all  the  scents 
of  the  Levant.  But  her  heart  was  even  richer  than  her 
clothes.  She  caught  the  girl  in  her  arms,  kissed  her 
cheeks,  said  not  one  word  that  could  hurt  her,  but  found 
all  the  right  ones.  If  it  had  been  Harston  who  was 
responsible  for  all  Manuella's  trouble,  she  might  have 
gone  with  Lulu,  been  warmed  by  a  rare  friendship,  made 
whole  in  the  fine  atmosphere  she  created.  But  it  was  not 
Harston  and  Alma  Orilia,  it  was  of  Waldo  and  his  imag- 
inary defection,  that  her  heart  was  full. 

For,  after  that  time  when  he  had  held  her  in  his  arms, 
and  said  he  would  cherish  her  always,  told  her  he  had 
never  kissed  anyone  else  and  never  would,  Waldo  stayed 
away.  That  is  to  say,  he  came  when  other  people  were 
there — came  in,  and  went  away  again,  saying  only  in- 
consequent things ;  he  talked  of  going  abroad  as  soon  as 
Dr.  Snorter  pronounced  baby  out  of  danger,  ignored  all 
that  had  happened  between  them. 


312  CONCERT    PITCH 

Before  the  end  of  the  week,  like  a  flower  after  rain, 
her  head  was  upraised,  proud  on  the  stalk  of  her  neck,  and 
she  met  him  as  if  his  kiss  had  never  warmed  her  lips  nor 
her  head  drooped  on  his  shoulder,  as  if  she  had  never 
needed  comforting,  nor  had  comfort  from  him. 

She  went  about  her  household  duties.  The  hospital 
nurse  wanted  a  great  deal  of  attention;  there  were  long 
hours  when  she  went  out  walking,  recreated  or  slept, 
all  according  to  the  regulations  of  the  Institute,  most 
religiously  kept.  Then  Manuella  took  her  place  in  the 
nursery. 

When  Waldo  would  have  spoken  to  her,  and  given  her 
the  result  of  his  deep  thinking,  she  was  ensconced  behind 
her  defences,  inaccessible.  The  day  Dr.  Shorter  said 
he  would  come  no  more,  because  baby  was  no  longer 
convalescent  but  well,  was  the  day  Waldo  started  for 
Rome.  He  knew  he  must  confront  Harston,  if  necessary 
Alma  Orilia.  This  was  not  a  case  for  lawyers,  not  yet, 
it  needed  delicate  handling,  clear  explanation ;  they  must 
know  where  they  all  stood. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

HE  did  not  dream  she  would  resent  his  going,  never 
guessing  his  destination.  He  had  made  up  his 
mind  slowly,  never  thinking  hers  was  not  marching  with 
it.  The  telegram  he  sent  her  only  said :  "  Going  abroad ; 
destination  uncertain." 

He  had  meanwhile  been  making  inquiries,  using  all  the 
means  at  his  disposal,  locating  not  Harston  and  Alma, 
but  Stollmont.  Genoa?  Milan?  Naples?  Rome? 
Nobody  knew,  save  that  the  impresario  had  left  America, 
and  would  be  found  at  one  or  the  other  city.  When 
he  read  in  the  papers  that  Stollmont's  first  production 
would  be  the  new  opera  by  the  composer  of  The  Chariot 
Queen,  and  that  Alma  Orilia  would  create  the  title 
role,  he  knew  his  quest  was  ended. 

To  Manuella,  the  telegram  was  like  a  blow  in  the  face. 
And  she  wanted  to  strike  back.  That  is  one  explana- 
tion of  what  followed.  The  other  is  that  the  devil, 
always  lurking  for  opportunity,  could  not  let  this  one 
pass. 

Dr.  Shorter  paid  his  last  visit. 

"  The  child  is  really  quite  well.  All  you  have  to  do  is 
to  keep  him  so.  We've  a  trying  winter  in  front  of  us; 
he  would  really  be  safer  in  a  warmer  climate.  ..." 

Dr.  Shorter  did  not  stay  for  question  or  answer,  he  was 

313 


314  CONCERT    PITCH 

always  outrageously  overworked.  And  all  he  could  do 
here  was  done. 

"  Get  him  out  of  London  if  possible,"  he  said  as  he 
shook  hands  with  her,  noting  that  she  looked  wan  and 
unhappy,  thinking  the  prescription  would  do  for  both 
of  them. 

Peter  Graham,  coming  in  opportunely,  heard  that  Dr. 
Shorter  advised  a  warmer  climate.  To  urge  the  Riviera 
scheme  again  upon  her  was  therefore  clearly  his  duty. 
She  became  aware  that,  if  Waldo  was  unreliable,  and 
not  there  for  her  to  lean  upon,  Mr.  Graham's  kindness 
towards  her  had  not  flagged. 

Dr.  Shorter  was  scarcely  out  of  the  house,  certainly  not 
back  in  Harley  Street,  before  it  was  decided  that  the 
advice  he  had  given  should  be  taken.  He  had  said  noth- 
ing about  the  Riviera,  nor  a  long  journey  abroad;  but 
Peter  Graham,  and  under  his  guidance,  Manuella,  took  it 
for  granted.  "  Out  of  London  "  could  only  be  "  out  of 
England  " ;  "  a  warmer  climate  "  implied  the  South.  The 
villa  was  ready. 

Some  misgiving  Manuella  may  have  felt  about  the 
long  journey,  for  she  went  up  to  discuss  it  with  the  hos- 
pital nurse.  At  Peter  Graham's  suggestion  she  sent  the 
nurse  down  to  him,  that  he  might  give  her  details.  When 
she  returned  to  the  nursery  the  nurse  said  she  had  no 
doubt,  no  doubt  at  all,  that  it  would  be  to  the  child's 
advantage. 

"  It  isn't,  of  course,  as  if  you  were  taking  him  alone, 
or  with  an  inexperienced  person.  I  shall  wrap  him  up 
well  for  the  journey,  keep  flannel  or  wool  over  his  face, 
and  shelter  him  from  draughts." 

The  hospital  nurse  liked  the  idea  of  getting  away  from 
London  in  November,  with  the  prospect  of  a  long  engage- 
ment ;  she  had  never  been  on  the  Riviera.  She  and  Peter 
played,  perhaps  unconsciously,  perhaps  not,  into  each 
other's  hands.  All  was  to  be  hurry ;  baby  must  be  "  got 
away  before  the  fogs  came ;  "  "  there  was  no  reason  for 
delay." 

Manuella's  hurt  feelings,  characteristic  impulsiveness, 


CONCERT    PITCH  315 

and  passionate  anxiety  for  the  child,  were  all  worked 
upon.  Peter  Graham  made  all  the  arrangements,  or 
helped  with  them.  He  was  indefatigable  in  helping; 
accentuating  her  fears,  scenting  fog  like  a  hound  with  a 
hare. 

Once  Manuella  made  up  her  mind  that,  if  Waldo  or 
Harston  should  come  back  leisurely  they  should  not 
find  her  there  waiting  for  them,  she  was  all  anxiety  to  be 
gone.  But  each  day,  secretly,  owning  it  not  even  to  her- 
self, she  watched  the  post  for  a  letter.  And  each  day, 
when  no  letter  came  from  Waldo,  she  felt  his  neglect 
more  acutely.  Her  hands  trembled  with  indignation 
when  she  thought  of  the  words  he  had  said  to  her,  and 
at  the  remembrance  of  her  own  admissions  her  cheeks 
burned.  Her  breath  was  caught  in  her  throat,  and  shame 
was  as  a  living  thing  when  she  thought  how  she  had 
thrown  herself  into  his  arms,  asked  him  for  comfort, 
almost  offered  herself  to  him.  Now  she  had  to  show 
him  she  could  think  and  act  for  herself.  She  could  not 
sleep,  she  could  not  rest  until  she  started,  leaving  no 
clue  behind. 

Peter  Graham's  villa  presented  itself  to  her  as  a  refuge, 
a  hiding-place  from  everybody,  from  everything;  from 
pity  and  love  and  pain. 

She  was  as  a  young  wounded  animal,  only  wanting  to 
hide.  For  Peter  Graham  she  cared  nothing.  If  he  was 
unaware  of  it,  that  was  because  his  vanity  stood  like  a 
concrete  thing  between  himself  and  his  intelligence ;  which 
at  its  best  was  but  as  a  musician's  intelligence,  of  crotchet 
and  quaver  proportions  and  limited  gradations.  He  had 
never  failed  with  a  woman,  ergo,  he  never  would.  He 
would  make  her  no  protestations,  no  scene  of  passion  in 
her  husband's  house,  in  these  inappropriate  surroundings. 
He  would  await  his  and  her  mood,  spend  time  and  a 
wealth  of  ingenuity  in  leading  her  into  the  mood  and  the 
surroundings.  He  was  no  hot  youth,  but  a  gourmet  in 
love,  all  that  was  most  sensitive  in  his  jaded  palate 
anticipated  the  end.  There  was  not  a  man  living  knew 
better  than  he  how  to  overcome  a  woman's  virtue. 


316  CONCERT    PITCH 

To  him  Manuella's  virtue  was  the  ultimate  charm,  so 
that  it  was  a  yielding  charm  to  him,  to  him  only.  And  he 
had  no  doubts. 

There  was  not  one  of  Manuella's  beauties  that  escaped 
him.  He  realized  how  well  she  was  formed,  the  graceful 
line  from  hip  to  ankle,  the  small  bust  and  slender  arms, 
the  dainty,  delicate  ears,  the  ivory  skin  with  its  warm 
underflush,  easily  provoked.  He  knew  much  more  about 
her  externally  than  Waldo  did,  although  Waldo  had  been 
her  fiance.  But  he  knew  less  perhaps  about  her  strength, 
or  her  courage,  or  her  loyalty. 

Cook  and  the  baby's  nurse  were  dismissed,  the  house 
dismantled  and  closed,  the  key  left  with  the  agent,  and 
no  address  given.  Manuella  and  the  baby,  with  the 
hospital  nurse,  were  on  the  way  to  Paris  before  Waldo 
had  been  gone  a  week  on  his  quest. 

Peter  Graham  sent  his  motor  car  to  take  them  to 
Folkestone.  The  sea  was  calm,  and  already  at  Boulogne 
it  seemed  as  if  she  had  left  half  her  troubles  behind  her. 
Travelling  on  the  Continent  was  like  renewing  her  youth. 
So  much  of  it  had  been  passed  abroad,  she  had  been  happy 
in  continental  schools,  far  happier  than  under  Loetitia's 
surveillance.  There  came  to  her  again  that  sense  of 
escape  she  had  always  had  when  out  of  reach  of  her  step- 
mother's cold  and  disapproving  eyes.  Then  she  had  only 
been  unhappy  in  leaving  Bertie  behind;  Bertie,  whom 
she  had  always  mothered.  To-day  she  cuddled  her  baby 
in  her  arms,  and  there  was  no  feeling  that  she  had  left 
behind  her  a  fellow-prisoner  in  bondage.  Every  trouble 
was  taken  off  her  hands  by  the  admirable  courier  Peter 
Graham's  forethought  had  provided.  They  were  not 
travelling  by  the  train  de  luxe,  so  she  had  not  the  dis- 
comforts of  that  overrated  method  to  overcome.  Peter 
told  her  that  the  man  would  pay  for  everything,  and 
give  her  an  account  at  the  end  of  the  journey.  She  was 
only  practical  in  strata,  so  to  speak,  and  was  quite 
content  with  the  arrangement.  Having  stipulated  for 
economy,  she  rested  content  that  it  was  being  consid- 
ered. 


CONCERT   PITCH  317 

When  she  found  herself  in  one  of  the  garden  suites 
at  the  "  Ritz  "  she  had  no  thought  of  extravagance  to 
mar  her  enjoyment  of  its  luxurious  quiet.  When,  the 
next  day,  she  was  ensconced  in  a  reserved  compartment 
in  the  Cote  d'Azur,  she  looked  upon  it  as  a  happy 
coincidence  that  in  a  compartment  for  six  people  only 
two  should  be  travelling.  At  every  stoppage  tea  or  fruit 
was  brought  to  her ;  she  was  advised  to  leave  the  carriage 
and  take  a  turn  on  the  platform,  or  told  to  retain  her  seat, 
as  the  case  might  be.  The  courier  was  an  excellent 
specimen  of  his  class,  and  had  been  well-instructed.  The 
nurse  was  equally  competent,  and  the  baby  slept  a  great 
part  of  the  day. 

At  Mentone  they  found  a  swift  car  waiting  for 
them ;  there  was  no  delay  for  luggage  to  be  cleared. 
All  possible  fatigue  of  travelling  had  been  spared 
her. 

They  arrived  at  Mentone  too  late  to  see  anything  of 
the  villa,  but  a  simple  supper  was  served  to  them  by  a 
deft  Swiss  who  seemed  to  understand  how  little  Manuella 
wanted  but  bed. 

Manuella's  room  was  large,  and,  for  a  French  bed- 
room, luxurious.  There  were  French  windows  and  a 
balcony,  she  could  see  that,  and  hear  the  soft  murmur 
of  the  sea  beneath  it;  her  unhappiness  seemed  to  float 
away  on  the  sound. 

She  woke  up  after  eight  hours'  dreamless  sleep  to  find 
the  sun  streaming  into  her  room.  From  the  open  jalousies 
of  the  windows  she  saw  the  blue  of  the  Mediterranean. 
Then,  getting  out  of  bed,  in  her  peignoir,  her  hair  float- 
ing, she  stepped  on  to  the  balcony.  Beyond  the  lemon 
and  orange  trees  lay  brown  rocks,  blue  sea,  and  streaks 
of  clear  green. 

The  sun  shone  on  the  water.  In  the  garden,  although 
it  was  November,  yellow  roses  grew  amid  the  palms 
and  oleanders ;  mimosa  scented  the  air,  and  in  the  green 
of  a  great  low  camellia  bush  hundreds  of  buds  showed 
pink  and  promising.  But  it  was  the  sea  that  held  her, 
the  blue  and  tideless  sea,  embayed  in  the  mountains. 


3i8  CONCERT    PITCH 

The  sun  dazzled  her,  and  after  she  had  taken  in  her 
surroundings,  she  stepped  back  into  her  room,  to  dress, 
to  visit  the  baby,  to  ring  for  breakfast,  to  feel  herself 
renewed,  and  more  ready  to  face  the  future  than  she  had 
thought  possible  forty-eight  hours  earlier. 

The  next  few  days  were  days  of  rest,  days  when  to  rise 
each  morning  in  the  sunshine  was  almost  enough  for 
happiness.  She  had  thought  happiness  was  something 
that  was  over  for  her,  but  she  found  it  again  here,  or 
such  a  simulacrum  that  she  took  heart,  and  thought  it 
was  real. 

The  villa  had  a  history.  Built  by  an  English  noble- 
man, shared  with  a  pale  and  wonderful  woman  and 
her  complaisant  husband,  it  was  called  Homage  de 
Soleil,  but  came  quickly  to  be  known  as  the  Villa 
Macquereau. 

Peter  Graham  bought  the  freehold  for  a  song  when  the 
English  nobleman  married  and  the  French  artist  was 
found  asphyxiated  with  gas  fumes.  Although  of  ornate 
architecture  and  limited  accommodation,  there  were  some 
of  the  comforts  of  an  English  home,  including  three  bath- 
rooms and  a  big  music-room.  The  music-room  had  been 
a  studio  but  was  easily  adapted. 

Peter  Graham  kept  two  servants  always  there,  a  Swiss 
manservant  and  his  wife,  bringing  with  him,  on  his  own 
visits,  what  was  necessary  to  complete  the  household 
for  his  comfort.  Knowing  the  simplicity  of  Manuella's 
tastes,  he  thought  that,  for  the  moment,  the  two  would 
be  sufficient  for  her.  All  his  plans  were  carefully  laid. 
She  had  spoken  of  expense,  and  he  meant  her  to  think 
she  was  living  economically. 

For  a  few  days  she  sat  about  on  the  balcony  or  in  the 
garden,  in  the  continual  sunshine,  playing  with  the  baby, 
seeing  gladly  the  brown  come  into  his  cheeks,  and  the  blue 
deepen  in  his  eyes,  noticing  his  willing  tongue  commenc- 
ing to  articulate,  proud  of  his  efforts  to  walk,  although  as 
yet  they  were  but  tentative. 

Naturally,  she  wrote  and  thanked  Mr.  Graham  for  all 
his  kindness,  asked  for  her  accounts,  praised  his  courier 


CONCERT   PITCH  319 

and  his  villa,  told  him  how  the  baby  had  already  gained 
weight  and  strength. 

She  was  neither  surprised  nor  startled  that  his  reply 
was  headed  "  Hotel  de  Paris,  Monte  Carlo."  She  was 
glad  rather,  a  little  tired  of  being  alone,  glad  of  anything 
that  would  prevent  her  thinking  always  of  Waldo  and 
wishing  he  were  with  her. 

"I  have  come  south,  after  all,  I  caught  a  bad  cold 
the  day  you  left  and  my  doctor  insisted.  May  I  drive 
over  this  afternoon ?  I  should  so  like  to  see  how  you  are 
getting  on." 

"  Of  course.  How  can  you  ask?  You  will  find  me  at 
home  at  any  time." 

When  Peter  came,  she  was  on  the  verandah  in  the 
long,  cushioned  lounge-chair;  she  had  not  expected  him 
so  early,  and  may  even  have  been  dozing.  The  idle, 
sunny  days  conduced  to  somnolency.  She  sprang  up 
hastily,  but  he  had  a  swift  vision  of  her  sleeping  there 
and  it  mounted  to  his  head  a  little.  He  was  less  calcu- 
lated in  his  warmth,  and  his  r's  were  more  pronounced. 

"  But  how  well  you  are  looking !  "  This  was  true. 
"  How  glad  I  am  to  see  you  here." 

"  Here  in  my  house  "  was  what  he  meant  although  he 
did  not  word  it ;  but  she  saw  what  was  in  his  mind,  and, 
perhaps  for  the  first  time,  some  slight  misgiving  touched 
her.  That  was  why  she  began  to  express  her  thanks 
quickly. 

"  I  have  been  well  ever  since  I  came  here.  So  has 
the  boy.  It  was  so  kind  of  you  to  lend  me  the  villa, 
perhaps  I  oughtn't  to  have  accepted  it.  We  are  so 
comfortable,  everything  seems  different.  But  if  we  in- 
convenience you  here?  Why  should  you  have  to  be  at 
an  hotel  ?  "  The  question  rushed  out  as  soon  as  it  pre- 
sented itself  to  her. 

Peter  had  no  difficulty  in  reassuring  her.  He  said 
hastily  that  he  never  used  the  villa  when  he  was  "  alone 


320  CONCERT   PITCH 

in  Monte  Carlo."  The  relative  truth  of  this  made  him 
smile. 

"  They  are  used  to  me  at  the  '  Paris.'  " 

He  spoke  of  the  good  food  at  the  hotel,  and  the  sub- 
terranean passage  to  the  Casino  and  the  Sporting  Club. 
It  was  unnecessary  to  tell  her  that  he  avoided  the  one 
and  was  rarely  at  the  other.  The  Monte  Carlo  of  news- 
papers and  novelists  had  no  attraction  for  Peter  Graham. 
He  did  not  care  to  gamble  in  the  fcetid  air  of  the  over- 
crowded rooms  amid  the  Germans  whose  guttural  accents, 
hideous  clothes,  and  worse  manners  jarred  his  sensi- 
bilities. If  he  wanted  to  gamble,  although  gambling  was 
not  among  his  foibles,  Nice  suited  him  better. 

Until  he  bought  the  villa  he  had  sometimes  spent  a 
month  or  six  weeks  at  Nice  or  Cannes.  After  he  bought 
the  villa  he  generally  arranged  his  winter  accordingly. 
He  had  never  lived  there  alone.  This  winter  he  wanted 
Manuella  to  play  hostess  to  him ;  he  had  never  wanted 
anything  so  much  in  his  life.  He  knew  it  whilst  he  was 
expressing  his  satisfaction  with  the  Hotel  de  Paris.  At 
the  "  Paris  "  there  were  German  officers  with  slashed, 
spoiled  faces,  women  whose  profession  was  written  on 
their  expensive  clothes,  illustrated  in  their  flashing 
jewellery,  colour-printed  in  their  many-scentednesses  and 
easiness  of  approach.  Manuella  Migotti,  in  her  white 
dress,  here,  in  this  quiet  hidden  pleasaunce,  was  infinitely 
more  to  his  taste.  He  asked  her  if  she  would  give  him 
luncheon  and  all  the  afternoon  he  lingered  with  her  in 
that  garden  by  the  sea. 

The  first  day  was  one  of  many.  He  proceeded  to  his 
objective  very  slowly;  there  seemed  no  occasion  for 
hurry.  Her  address  was  unknown  and  she  would  have 
no  letters.  There  came  no  other  visitors.  No  one  knew 
where  she  was  hiding  from  gossip  and  the  ignominy  of 
being  a  deserted  wife.  He  did  not  go  into  details  even  to 
himself.  It  was  enough  that  she  was  here,  and  so  was 
he.  Always  she  was  grateful  to  him,  glad  that  he  should 
come,  greeting  him  without  guile.  By  subtle  indefinite 
hints  and  innuendoes,  by  an  attitude  of  solicitous  and 


CONCERT    PITCH  321 

sympathetic  wonderment  that  such  a  state  of  affairs 
should  come  about,  he  kept  before  her  the  remembrance 
that  her  husband  had  deserted  her,  and  that  she  was  alone 
in  the  world. 

At  first  he  sat  with  her  on  the  verandah,  lounged  with 
her  in  the  garden.  But,  before  many  days  had  gone  by, 
he  ventured  to  suggest  that,  since  she  was  here,  it  was  a 
pity  she  should  not  see  some  of  the  beauties  of  the 
Riviera. 

"  I  am  very  happy  where  I  am,  I  don't  want  to  go  out." 
She  was  difficult  to  persuade,  but  that  made  the  task 
better  worth  accomplishing.  It  appeared  he  had  his 
motor  with  him,  and  that,  up  to  now,  he  had  only 
gone  from  the  Hotel  de  Paris  to  the  villa  and  back 
again. 

"  I  want  you  to  go  up  La  Turbie.  If  you  would 
rather  go  by  yourself,  I  shall  be  quite  satisfied  to  remain 
here  until  you  come  back  and  tell  me  what  you  think  of 
the  view.  I  don't  want  to  be  in  your  way,  but  really  I 
think  you  should  go  out  sometimes  and  see  what  there  is 
to  be  seen." 

She  went  at  his  persuasion  to  La  Turbie,  lunching  with 
him  at  the  hotel  that  hangs  half-way  up  the  mountain, 
going  on  afterwards  to  see  the  golf  links  laid  amid  the 
snow.  It  was  thoroughly  enjoyable.  He  said  nothing 
to  startle  or  alarm  her,  and  when  he  suggested  the  next 
excursion  to  the  Reserve  at  Beaulieu,  she  accepted  at 
once.  There  they  lunched  on  the  balcony,  looked  down 
on  the  brown  rocks,  where  the  sea,  patchily  brown  or 
blue,  reflected  now  the  rocks  and  now  the  sky. 

It  was,  indeed,  only  the  first  step  that  counted,  and 
quite  soon  these  excursions  were  of  daily  occurrence. 
Daily  the  motor  came  up  to  the  villa  at  twelve  or  at  four. 
Peter  Graham  knew  exactly  what  he  was  doing,  and  that 
everybody  was  seeing  them  together.  They  went  to 
Cap  Martin  and  to  Nice,  and  even  as  far  as  Cannes,  up 
the  Corniche  Road  or  the  Esterel,  to  afternoon  concerts 
in  the  Casino,  once  in  the  evening  to  the  opera. 

To  Manuella  these  were  just  so  many  hours  in  which 


322  CONCERT   PITCH 

she  had  respite  from  her  thoughts,  from  her  ache  in  hear- 
ing no  word  from  Waldo.  She  did  not  know  where  he 
was ;  that  he  was  in  like  case  with  regard  to  herself  never 
occurred  to  her.  He  had  not  asked  her  to  write,  he  had 
gone  away  without  a  word. 

Presently  it  became  part  of  Peter's  method  to  tell  her 
that  the  noise  of  the  hotel,  the  sound  of  the  tramcars 
outside,  were  getting  on  his  nerves,  depriving  him  of 
sleep,  to  hint  that  there  was  room  for  him  as  well  as  her 
at  the  villa. 

"  Nurse  would  be  a  sufficient  chaperone,"  he  said  once, 
half  in  jest,  "  always  presuming  we  were  conventional 
people  needing  a  chaperon.  I  suppose  if  your  husband 
were  here  he  would  treat  me  as  if  I  were  Gerald  Streat- 
field,  and  keep  me  to  play  with  him  of  an  evening.  .  .  ." 

When  he  spoke  of  music  now  he  spoke  of  himself  as 
an  artist,  not  as  an  amateur.  Professional  musicians, 
like  actors  and  actresses,  have,  of  course,  exceptional 
social  latitudes.  He,  too,  it  appeared,  and  he  had 
no  doubt  Manuella  agreed  with  him,  despised  con- 
vention. 

"  Of  course,  I  know  you  are  above  such  things  .  .  ." 

Why  should  he  not  stay  at  the  villa?  There  are 
subtleties  of  method  difficult  to  combat,  and  Peter  Gra- 
ham was  master  of  them  all.  He  said  he  understood 
women,  and,  indeed,  there  were  many  of  whom  it  was 
true.  This  one  was  impulsive,  emotional,  not  without 
temperament,  but  ignorant,  innocent  beyond  anything  he 
had  met.  He  learnt  all  that,  although  he  had  only  sus- 
pected it  before  he  brought  her  here.  He  knew  now  that 
he  must  find  her  in  the  mood,  wait  and  watch. 

He  was  walking  so  delicately,  by  such  wary  imper- 
ceptible steps,  it  was  natural  she  should  not  see  where  he 
was  leading  her.  It  was  not  within  her  understanding 
or  knowledge  of  the  world  to  perceive  that  she  was  being 
"  compromised,"  intentionally  compromised.  She  was 
bitterly  hurt  by  Waldo's  absence,  Waldo's  silence; 
resentful,  too,  of  her  husband's  desertion.  She  was  of  a 
generous  nature,  yet  could  not  but  remember  how  much 


CONCERT   PITCH  323 

she  had  given,  and  for  how  little  it  had  counted.  Both  of 
them  had  left  her,  Waldo  and  Harston,  that  much  was 
sure.  She  was  sore  and  wounded,  unreasonable,  perhaps, 
still  very  young. 

"  Let  me  tell  my  man  he  may  move  my  things  over. 
You  are  not  pretending  to  be  conventional,  are  you? 
You  don't  think  Harston  would  mind,  do  you  ?  " 

"  I  know  he  doesn't  care,"  was  her  hasty  reply. 

"  People  come  to  the  hotel  at  all  hours  of  the  night ; 
it  is  so  terribly  noisy.  I  get  no  sleep."  He  coughed  a 
little,  complained  of  his  throat. 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

LORD  LYSSONS  meanwhile  was  proving  himself  but 
an  indifferent  detective,  and,  when  he  had  found 
what  he  sought,  an  even  worse  negotiator.  He  journeyed 
from  Genoa  to  Naples  and  then  back  again  to  Milan 
on  the  strength  of  unreliable  information.  He  was  ten 
days  away  from  London  before  he  got  to  Rome,  where, 
it  seemed,  not  only  Migotti  and  Alma  Orilia,  but  Stoll- 
mont  himself  had  been  all  the  time.  No  grass  was  grow- 
ing under  their  feet,  certainly.  Stollmont  had  secured 
the  Costanzi  for  the  season,  and  was  already  announcing 
//  Traditore  for  his  first  production.  What  series  of  cir- 
cumstances had  led  up  to  this  decision  Lord  Lyssons  did 
not  ask;  it  was  no  part  of  his  objective. 

When  at  length  he  heard  of  Alma  Orilia  in  a  luxu- 
riously furnished  flat  near  the  theatre  he  seemed  little 
farther  in  his  quest  for  Harston  Migotti ;  certainly  they 
were  not  together.  But  at  the  theatre  there  was  no 
difficulty  in  obtaining  the  musician's  address ;  the  theatre 
was  billed  with  the  announcement  of  the  forthcoming 
production  of : 

"  //  Traditore,  by  Harston  Migotti." 

Waldo  telegraphed  to  Manuella  without  further  delay : 

"  Obviously  a  mistake.    Not  together." 

He  sent  the  telegram  to  Circus  Road,  but  Manuella 
324 


CONCERT   PITCH  325 

never  received  it.  She  had  left  for  Peter  Graham's  villa 
on  the  Riviera  before  it  arrived. 

Migotti  was  in  Rome  and  at  the  Hotel  Marini,  but  it 
seemed  he  was  never  at  home.  Anyway,  Waldo  was 
engaged  nearly  a  week  in  securing  an  interview,  and  he 
did  not  succeed  even  then  without  great  difficulty. 

"  Ah,  yes !  You  called  yesterday,  and  the  day  before. 
But  I  am  so  much  occupied,  from  morning  until  night 
I  am  occupied." 

Harston  was  polite,  incurious  as  to  the  object  of  Lord 
Lyssons'  call,  obviously  impatient  of  interruption. 

"  My  hands  are  so  full.  There  is  nothing  like  sufficient 
time  for  rehearsals."  The  light  of  genius  was  in  his 
eyes;  his  hair  was  longer  than  ever  and  excessively 
rumpled. 

They  were  in  the  bare  salon  d'attente  of  the  small 
third-class  hotel.  Harston  had  come  to  his  visitor  here, 
holding  the  card  in  his  hand. 

"  I  am  not  seeing  people  at  all.  But  they  told  me  you 
had  been  again,  and  yet  again.  What  is  it  you  have 
to  say  to  me?  I  have  but  a  minute,  Madame  Orilia  is 
calling  for  me.  ..." 

Waldo  took  his  eye-glass  out ;  he  felt  embarrassed,  and 
knew  that  what  he  had  come  to  say  was  impossible  to  put 
into  words. 

"  I  come  from  London." 

"  From  London  ?  " 

"  Where  I  saw  your  wife."  The  light  of  genius  dulled 
a  little.  Waldo  thought  he  flushed. 

"  She  is  well  ?    Manuella  is  well  ?  " 

"  Quite.    But  the  child  has  been  very  ill." 

Harston  was  ready  to  tear  his  wild  hair,  weep,  make  a 
scene. 

"  You  have  come  to  tell  me  that  my  son  is  dead !  " 

"  No !    No !    He  has  made  a  complete  recovery." 

"  But  you  have  not  come  all  this  way  to  tell  me  that  ?  " 
He  was  taken  aback,  puzzled. 

"  Not  exactly."  Waldo  put  his  glass  back.  "  Not 
exactly."  Harston  became  more  impatient. 


326  CONCERT    PITCH 

"  The  child,  for  the  moment,  is  well  .  .  .  for  the 
moment.  But  the  attack  may  recur.  The  doctor  said 
to  your  wife :  '  You  had  better  send  for  your  husband.' 
So  I  came,"  this  strange  ambassador  finished  lamely. 

"  I  have  had  no  letter,  nor  telegram,"  Harston  said 
shortly.  Now  there  was  a  gleam  of  understanding  or 
doubt,  but  there  was  still  the  attitude  of  impatience. 

"  I  was  coming  this  way,"  Waldo  continued,  as  if  from 
London  to  Rome  were  less  than  a  step. 

His  eyes  were  quite  steady,  but  the  other's  were  flicker- 
ing and  uncertain.  In  an  altered  tone  Harston  said  now : 

"  Did  she  send  me  any  other  message  ?  " 

"  No,  not  exactly  a  message."  They  began  to  under- 
stand each  other.  "  You  see,  she  did  not  know  I  was 
coming.  Would  you  care  to  hear  what  she  said  to  the 
doctor  ?  " 

"  What  did  she  say  to  the  doctor?  " 

"  She  said,  in  effect :  '  My  husband  has  gone  away 
with  Madame  Alma  Orilia,  and  has  not  left  me  his 
address/  ' 

Harston's  face  grew  very  pale,  and  the  light  in  his 
eyes  went  out  suddenly,  as  if  it  had  been  turned  off  at 
the  main. 

She  said  that?" 
In  effect." 

'It  is  a  lie!" 

'  I  thought  it  might  be  a  lie." 
'Who  told  her  that?" 

'  It  appears  to  be  no  secret.  Madame  Orilia's  brother 
and  sister-in-law,  and  many  of  your  friends,  have  been 
to  Circus  Road  to  sympathize  with  her." 

"  It  is  a  lie,"  he  said  again.  And  then  suddenly  he 
was  irresolute. 

"  Of  course  I  left  London  with  Alma  Orilia,"  he 
shouted.  "  What  of  that  ?  What  of  that  ?  " 

"  That  is  the  question,"  repeated  Lord  Lyssons  easily. 

He  saw  the  change  in  the  man's  face.  "  Do  you  mind 
if  I  light  a  cigarette?  It  is  allowed  here?  Yes,  that 
is  the  question." 


CONCERT   PITCH  327 

"What  have  you  to  do  with  it?"  Harston  asked 
abruptly,  rudely. 

But  Waldo  was  prepared  for  that  inquiry. 

"  I  am  representing  your  wife's  brother,  who,  with  her 
father  and  mother,  is  in  South  Africa."  He  spoke  quite 
steadily,  and  as  if  it  were  natural  that  he  should  repre- 
sent her  people. 

If  Harston  Migotti's  conscience  had  been  clear  he 
might  have  answered  differently  ;  as  it  was  he  said  angrily : 

"  We  came  to  meet  Stollmont.  Alma  will  sing  the 
title  role  in  //  Traditore." 

The  door  was  flung  open,  and  Alma  Orilia,  superbly 
ugly  in  her  dark  furs  and  ill-temper,  broke  impatiently 
upon  their  colloquy : 

"  I  have  been  waiting  ten  minutes,  twenty  minutes, 
half  an  hour.  ..." 

She  stopped  short  on  seeing  he  was  not  alone. 

"  This  is  Lord  Lyssons.  ..." 

She  made  a  sullen  acknowledgment  of  the  introduction. 
Waldo  said  politely  that  he  was  sorry  he  was  the  cause 
of  her  having  been  kept  waiting.  He  was  interested  to 
see  whether  Migotti  would  explain  his  presence  there 
and  state  the  object  of  his  visit. 

"  He  has  come  from  England,  from  my  wife,"  Harston 
said  with  embarrassment,  with  an  effort.  Her  brow 
grew  black : 

"  You  know  Stollmont  is  coming  at  three.  We  shall 
hardly  have  time  to  get  through  lunch."  She  ignored 
what  he  said.  Then  she  laughed,  and  returned  to  it. 
"  Your  wife  has,  perhaps,  sent  for  you  to  return.  She 
does  not  want  I  shall  create  the  role  of  Queen  Cartis- 
mandua  ? "  She  looked  at  Lord  Lyssons,  and  Waldo 
answered  gravely : 

"  I  believe  Madame  Migotti  is  most  grateful  to  you  for 
that." 

"  The  child  has  been  ill,"  Harston  interposed. 

She  looked  from  one  to  the  other  of  the  men. 

"  You  will  go  back  ?  You  will  abandon  the  produc- 
tion?" 


328  CONCERT   PITCH 

"  It  could  go  on  without  me  ?  " 

"Or  me?" 

"  You  don't  mean  it !  " 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders,  but  there  was  battle  in  her 
eyes. 

"  My  friend,  if  you  go,  if  you  go  ..."  she  made  a 
dramatic  gesture  with  her  hands,  "  it  is  finished.  It  is 
I  who  have  persuaded  Stollmont ;  he  does  not  believe  at 
all  in  your  opera,  nobody  here  believes  in  it.  Go  back 
to  your  wife,  or  to  nurse  your  baby,  or  what  you 
like.  But  if  you  go,  the  opera  goes;  I  shall  not  stay; 
your  opportunity  goes  ..."  She  went  toward  the 
door. 

"  You  see  ..."  Harston  said.  "  You  see  ...  I 
have  no  choice." 

But  what  Lord  Lyssons  saw  was  different.  She  showed 
him  by  her  rage  that  she  was  not  sure  of  Migotti's 
allegiance,  that  she  doubted  her  hold  on  him. 

He  followed  them  leisurely,  and  was  in  time  to  note 
that  she  was  leaning  forward  in  the  carriage,  talking 
passionately  and  quickly,  that  Migotti  still  appeared  ir- 
resolute, and  as  if  he  were  defending  himself. 

They  passed  him  again  later  on,  seated  side  by  side. 
Now  she  had  a  proprietorial  air,  and  it  was  as  if  Harston 
Migotti  was  a  captive  in  her  chariot. 

Waldo  had  a  restless  day,  a  wakeful  night.  The  posi- 
tion was  quite  clear  to  him,  not  what  he  had  hoped  to 
find,  although  he  hardly  knew  for  what  he  had  hoped. 
He  was  sufficiently  conversant  with  the  divorce  laws  of 
England  to  know  that  one  stepped  into  them  as  into  a 
morass;  the  parties  must  walk  gingerly  together  if  they 
would  skirt  it.  Harston  Migotti  was  not  a  man  in  the 
throes  of  a  passion,  who  would  do  anything,  that  he  might 
indulge  it.  He  was  only  a  composer  who  wished  his 
music  sung  perfectly. 

Harston  Migotti  came  to  him  in  the  morning,  and 
showed  himself  still  irresolute,  irresolutely  explanatory. 

"  I  have  written  to  Manuella.  She  knows  how  im- 
portant this  production  is  to  me.  ...  I  have  told  her 


CONCERT    PITCH  329 

she  must  not  be  jealous.  You  will  see  her,  you  will 
tell  her,  you  will  explain  ?  " 

Waldo  asked  him  what  it  was  he  wished  explained. 

"  Is  it  your  relations  with  Madame  Orilia?  If  so,  give 
me  my  brief,  tell  me  what  I  am  to  say." 

But  Harston  found  it  difficult  of  explanation.  It 
appeared  he  could  not  do  without  Alma  Orilia — not  now, 
at  least,  although  he  could  have  done  without  the  scenes 
she  made  for  him.  He  had  not  the  delicacy  to  conceal 
that  there  was  only  one  way  to  keep  Alma  Orilia  in  his 
service. 

"  It  is  impossible  to  explain  to  Manuella.  I  don't 
know  what  you  will  say  to  her.  She  has  sent  you  to  me, 
to  tell  me  that  I  must  come  back,  that  now,  now  at  this 
minute,  I  must  give  up  Alma.  But  no  one  else  can  sing 
my  music  as  she  can  sing  it.  ...  " 

Waldo,  unlike  himself  from  the  effect  of  his  bad  night, 
forgot  it  was  a  genius  to  whom  he  was  talking,  something 
between  a  child  and  a  man,  not  wholly  responsible,  and 
answered  impulsively: 

"  She  did  not  send  me  at  all ;  I  came  entirely  on  my 
own  responsibility.  I  am  her  friend,  her  brother's 
friend."  He  struggled  for  his  calm,  and  the  right  phrase. 
"  She  is  alone,  and  knows  you  are  with  Alma  Orilia.  She 
need  not  remain  alone.  You  take  that  in,  don't  you? 
There  is  another  man.  ..." 

He  was  speaking  of  himself,  under  great  emotion.  But 
Harston  misread  him. 

"  There  is  a  man  who  wants  the  place  you  have  aban- 
doned— the  place  by  her  side,  the  right  to  cherish  her, 
give  her  back  happiness,  let  her  youth  flower.  But 
only  if  he  can  take  it  honestly,  without  hurting  her  or 
her  honour.  ..." 

"You  are  telling  me  this?" 

'  This  man  loves  her,  not  selfishly.  ..." 

"  My  wife?    My  Manuella f  " 

"  With  his  whole  heart.  He  will  not  see  her  neglected, 
deserted,  put  aside  for  the  convenience  or  gratification  of 
this — this  other  woman."  He  could  not  go  on. 


330  CONCERT    PITCH 

Harston  repeated  stupidly : 

"  My  little  Manuella !  My  wife  of  the  hearth !  But 
no !  it  is  not  possible !  "  And  then  with  a  sudden  en- 
lightenment : 

"  I  know  of  whom  you  are  telling  me,  Alma  has  already 
told  me.  It  is  Mr.  Graham,  Mr.  Peter  Graham.  You 
have  seen  them  together?  I  understand,  I  understand 
now  quite  well  why  you  have  come !  But  it  is  not  true, 
it  is  not  possible.  My  wife  loves  me;  she  would  not  do 
such  a  thing.  What  must  I  say  or  do?  I  am  quite  dis- 
tracted. I  shall  send  for  her  to  come  to  me,  I  shall  tell 
her  everything.  ..." 

Waldo  could  not  bring  himself  to  say  that  it  was  not 
of  Peter  Graham  that  he  had  spoken.  Harston  behaved 
like  a  lunatic,  a  woman,  or  a  musician.  He  wrung  his 
hands  and  cried,  he  said  it  was  impossible  and  incredible, 
and  so  wicked  that  he  would  not  believe  it.  Mr.  Peter 
Graham  was  his  friend,  and  Manuella  was  his  wife,  and 
they  would  not  spoil  his  opera. 

Waldo  had  to  calm  him  presently,  and  to  say  that 
nothing  had  happened,  he  was  quite  sure  nothing  had 
happened;  he  merely  warned  him.  It  took  quite  a  long 
time  to  restore  the  young  composer's  calm  and  reassure 
him.  Waldo  sickened  over  the  task,  for  it  showed  him 
a  sterner  one.  In  incoherent  phrases,  confessions,  Harston 
let  fall  the  admission  that  she  had  cause  of  complaint. 

"  But  I  have  not  left  her,  nor  thought  of  leaving  her, 
or  my  son — my  son,  to  whom  I  dedicated  the  Berceuse, 
who  will  be  to  me  as  Siegfried  Wagner.  Tell  me  what  I 
must  do?  But  I  cannot  go,  I  cannot  go  away,  until  my 
opera  is  produced.  ..." 

He  had  no  intention  of  behaving  badly  to  Manuella. 
The  man  was  half-hearted  in  his  infidelity,  if  it  were  an 
infidelity,  and  not  merely  an  artistic  aberration.  In  a 
burst  of  reluctant  confidence  he  revealed  himself  more 
clearly. 

"  No  one  else  can  sing  my  music  as  she  sings  it.  If 
she  knows  that  Manuella  comes  she  will  be  upset,  she 
will  make  scenes,  her  voice  will  suffer.  She  wishes  that 


CONCERT   PITCH  331 

we  shall  be  alone  until  after  the  opera  is  produced. 
Manuella  disturbs,  distresses  her." 

Nevertheless,  in  the  end,  but  not  until  further  days 
had  sped,  and  Lord  Lyssons'  irresolution  almost  rivalled 
Harston's,  Alma  Orilia  herself  decided  that  Manuella 
must  be  sent  for,  must  come  to  Rome.  Only  a  week 
before  the  production  Juan  Orilia  telegraphed  to  his 
wife  that  he  intended  to  be  present!  She  knew  enough 
of  Juan  to  realize  what  that  meant.  He  had  heard 
something  .  .  .  that  he  had  heard  all,  and  more  than 
all,  was  also  possible.  For  only  three  days  ago  she  had 
dismissed  her  maid,  having  quarrelled  with  her.  Alma 
Orilia  knew  and  feared  her  husband's  temper. 

"  You  had  better  send  for  your  jealous  wife  since  my 
jealous  husband  is  coming,  unexpectedly,"  she  said  sud- 
denly. "  He  will  see  you  are  together,  and  that  it  is  not 
with  me  you  are  here.  One  must  be  circumspect." 

Impelled  by  that  new  desire  of  hers  to  be  circumspect, 
Harston  came  again  to  Waldo. 

"  I  shall  telegraph  her  to  come  to  me ;  you  agree  that 
is  best?  She  will  know  then  that  I  have  not  deserted 
her,  that  it  is  only  my  opera." 

Waldo  had  no  choice  but  to  agree.  It  was  clear  that, 
whatever  had  happened  or  was  happening,  Manuella  was 
not  to  be  free.  He  saw  clearly  that  if  that  were  so,  it 
were  better  that  she  should  be  here.  There  would  be  the 
need  of  a  great  giving  and  forgiving,  but  she  had  told  him 
that  in  all  her  married  life,  when  she  gave  most  her  heart 
had  the  greater  ease.  She  was  generous  and  just,  above 
all  things,  loyal.  When  she  saw,  as  he  saw,  that  her 
husband  had  need  of  her,  being  unfit  to  stand  alone, 
and  that  Alma  Orilia  had  not  courage  of  her  crime,  she 
would  come.  Alma's  fear  of  Juan  Orilia  would  make 
Manuella  contemptuous,  but  not  cruel. 

As  for  himself,  there  was  nothing  to  do  but  stand 
aside,  go  on  for  ever  standing  aside.  It  was  to  be  the 
straight  and  narrow  path  for  both  of  them.  He  thought 
he  could  trust  himself  to  walk  by  her  side  in  it ;  at  least 
a  little  way,  until  her  own  feet  were  firm. 


332  CONCERT   PITCH 

Lord  Lyssons  sent  the  telegram  in  Harston's  name, 
begging  her  to  join  him  in  Rome,  saying  that  nothing 
she  had  heard  was  true ;  she  was  to  come  to  him  at  once. 
He  offered  to  find  rooms  for  her,  meet  her.  Harston  had 
not  a  moment  to  spare. 

"  And,  after  all,  at  the  Hotel  Marini  I  am  uncomfor- 
table, not  well  placed.  I  have  often  indigestion.  You 
will  tell  her  that,  when  you  meet  her,  and  that  I  have 
missed  her.  . 


CHAPTER  XXX 

THE  telegram  was  sent  off,  and  Waldo  awaited  the 
result.  He  would  not  leave  Rome  until  she  came. 
She  would  face  her  life  bravely,  of  that  he  was  assured; 
and  he  would  stay  beside  her  until  she  knew  all  that  she 
had  to  face,  helping  her  if  she  needed  help. 

But  one  day  passed,  two  days,  three  days,  and  there 
came  neither  reply,  nor  Manuella.  It  is  impossible  to 
deny  that  Lord  Lyssons  was  more  disturbed  than  Harston 
Migotti.  Five  and  even  six  hours'  rehearsals  took  from 
the  latter  the  necessary  capacity  for  excitement.  They 
left  him  mentally  exhausted ;  he  ignored  the  passing  days 
and  that  he  ought  to  have  had  an  answer  from  his  wife. 
On  Wednesday,  Waldo  met  him  coming  home  from  one 
of  these  rehearsals,  and  asked  him  casually : 

"  Have  you  had  a  wire?  " 

The  same  question  on  Thursday  made  Harston  brush 
his  hand  across  his  forehead  in  an  attempt  to  remember 
from  whom  he  expected  a  wire;  but  he  was  quite  sure 
he  had  not  had  one  from  his  wife. 

"  She  is  most  probably  on  her  way,"  he  said  comfort- 
ably. He  was  glad  of  the  delay ;  nothing  more  had  been 
heard  from  Juan  Orilia,  and  Alma  was  more  exacting 
than  ever. 

Lord  Lyssons  haunted  the  station,  met  every  possible 
and  impossible  train.  It  was  nearly  a  week  before  his 
uneasiness  overwhelmed  him.  That  day,  for  some  rea- 

333 


334  CONCERT    PITCH 

son,  there  was  no  early  rehearsal,  and  he  found  Migotti 
at  his  hotel.  He  made  no  secret  of  his  perturbation : 

"She  has  not  come,  nor  wired?  But  she  must  have 
got  both  our  wires  on  Tuesday  evening !  " 

He  had  not  previously  told  Migotti  that  he,  too,  had 
wired ;  but  the  information  seemed  to  make  no  impression. 

"  Something  must  be  the  matter ;  the  baby  worse,  per- 
haps, or  Manuella  herself  ill  ?  " 

He  did  not  succeed  in  communicating  his  own  uneasi- 
ness to  the  composer.  Harston  did  not,  as  Waldo  almost 
expected,  suggest  taking  the  first  train  to  England  to  find 
out  for  himself  what  had  occurred;  nor  did  he  propose 
that  Lord  Lyssons  should  do  so.  He  answered  reassur- 
ingly that  he  was  sure  Gerald  Streatfield  would  have  let 
him  know  if  there  had  been  anything  wrong,  and, 
vaguely,  that  perhaps  Manuella  thought  it  better  not  to 
come  to  Rome.  He  seemed  in  a  hurry  to  get  away, 
although  there  was  no  rehearsal.  Just  as  Waldo  was 
leaving  he  said,  inadvertently,  and  as  if  it  had  nothing 
to  do  with  the  subject : 

"  You  know  that  Mr.  Graham,  of  whom  you  spoke  to 
me,  is  not  in  England  at  all;  he  is  on  the  Riviera — at 
Nice  or  Monte  Carlo." 

He  did  not  seem  in  the  least  to  resent  Lord  Lyssons' 
anxiety,  he  wished  only  to  relieve  it. 

But  Waldo  when  he  came  away  did  not  find  himself 
relieved;  his  anxiety  was,  in  fact,  acute,  and  hourly 
gathering  momentum.  He  thought  he  had  acted  for  the 
best  in  coming  out  here.  Now  he  was  full  of  doubts. 
She  might  be  ill,  or  the  baby  worse.  He  sent  a  "  reply 
paid "  wire  to  Dr.  Shorter  when  he  could  bear  it  no 
longer.  Whilst  he  was  waiting  for  the  answer  he  saw 
Madame  Orilia.  This  was  at  her  own  request.  Harston 
had  told  her  of  Lord  Lyssons'  anxiety,  and  she  was 
curious  to  know  the  source  of  his  interest,  curious  alto- 
gether about  his  presence  in  Rome.  She  was  undoubtedly 
in  fear  of  her  husband,  and  the  wild  idea  assailed  her 
that  it  was  on  his  behalf  this  English  milord  was  here. 
Once  she  had  thought  she  could  disregard  Juan  as  long 


CONCERT   PITCH  335 

as  baccarat  was  played  at  so  many  clubs  in  Paris,  trente- 
et-quarante  in  Palermo,  San  Sebastian,  or  Monte  Carlo, 
roulette  in  San  Remo  and  other  Italian  health  resorts. 
But  she  knew  better  now.  If  this  Lord  Lyssons,  who 
was  making  himself  troublesome  to  Migotti,  who  was 
so  curious,  and  persistent  in  remaining  in  Rome,  was  a 
friend  of  Juan's,  it  was  better  she  should  see  him  know 
where  she  stood. 

She  was  all  graciousness  at  the  beginning  of  the  inter- 
view. The  big,  untidy  characteristically-Italian  flat,  full 
of  bizarre  ornaments,  generically  called  art  nouveau, 
angular  in  contour,  crude  in  colour,  without  any  mystery 
but  the  mystery  of  wonder  as  to  why  they  had  been 
brought  there,  without  beauty  or  utility,  formed  appro- 
priate background  for  the  superb  ugliness  of  the  popular 
singer.  The  Erard  grand  piano  was  littered  with  music, 
and  the  singer  seemed  littered  with  clothes — clothes  of 
bright  colours,  loosely  hung  about  her,  while  the  jewellery 
she  wore  was  incongruous.  She  had  evidently  made  her 
toilette  for  him.  She  talked  with  amazing  freedom  of 
the  opera  and  its  chances,  and  was  obviously  on  the  most 
familiar  terms  with  Migotti,  directing  him  to  do  this  or 
that,  fetch  her  cigarettes  or  the  hand-bag  out  of  the  bed- 
room, calling  him  Migotti  without  prefix,  making  a 
certain  intimacy  obvious.  She  seemed  to  flaunt  their 
relations ;  but  uneasily,  watchfully.  Waldo  had  not  the 
clue  to  her  conduct,  and  was  puzzled  by  it.  At  the  end 
she  said : 

"  You  will  be  seeing  my  husband  ?  You  will  tell  him 
we  have  met  ?  " 

He  could  only  disavow  any  acquaintance  with  Signer 
Orilia. 

Alma  smiled  and  shrugged  and  disbelieved  him,  which 
helped  to  enlighten  him.  But,  by  now,  he  had  little 
interest  in  her,  or  in  Harston's  relations  with  her.  He 
was  living  between  the  telegraph  office  and  the  station. 
He  counted  up  the  days,  and  found  it  incredible  that  for 
over  three  weeks  he  had  been  without  news  of  Manuella 
or  the  child. 


336  CONCERT    PITCH 

Dr.  Shorter's  answer,  when  at  length  it  came,  was  not 
of  a  nature  to  relieve  him. 

"  House  shut  up.    Key  with  agent.    No  address." 

She  had  left  home  and  she  was  not  here!  What  did 
it  mean?  He  wired  again. 

"When  did  she  leave?" 

It  might  be  she  was  on  her  way  here,  travelling  slowly. 
She  might  have  met  with  an  accident.  When  he  knew 
she  had  left  London  three  days  after  he  saw  her  for  the 
last  time,  every  hour  brought  new  fears.  She  might 
have  gone  to  seaside  or  country,  the  child  having  perhaps 
been  taken  ill  again.  She  did  not  know  his  whereabouts, 
and  could  not  send  for  him  as  she  had  done  last  time. 
A  wild  thought  that  she  might  have  gone  out  to  South 
Africa  shot  across  his  mind,  only  to  be  dismissed.  She 
would  never  have  gone  to  Lcetitia.  He  had  to  find  her. 
Alma  Orilia  was  a  dangerous  woman,  and  her  hold  on 
Migotti  was  not  to  be  ignored.  All  Rome  was  talking 
now,  as  all  London  had  talked  a  few  weeks  ago.  There 
was  no  time  to  be  lost. 

To  go  back  to  England,  and  make  his  own  inquiries, 
was  his  obvious  course.  Migotti  still  could  not  be  brought 
to  see  any  cause  for  alarm. 

"  It  is  for  the  child's  convalescence  she  has  gone ;  to 
the  English  seaside,  to  the  Isle  of  Wight,  or  to  Torquay. 
We  will  hear  soon ;  it  will  be  all  right." 

He  said  he  must  not  allow  himself  to  be  agitated  or 
uneasy.  The  moment  was  too  important,  too  vital.  They 
were  within  ten  days  of  the  production.  The  King  and 
Queen  of  Italy  were  to  grace  the  first  performance  with 
their  presence. 

"  After  that,  after  that,  I  will  search  with  you." 

It  was  obvious  that  Manuella  came  second  to  the  opera. 
But  with  Waldo  she  was,  and  would  always  be,  first. 

He  took  that  wasted  journey,  back  to  England,  only 
to  find  no  news  at  the  agent's,  and  no  clue  at  the  cottage. 

Instinct,  impulse,  led  him  eventually  to  the  quarry. 
But  Manuella  had  been  three  weeks  on  the  Riviera  before 
this  happened,  three  weeks  in  Peter  Graham's  villa  by 


CONCERT   PITCH  337 

the  sea.  When  once  Waldo  knew  Manuella  was  on  the 
Riviera,  the  rest  was  comparatively  easy.  Peter  Graham 
could  not  be  incognito  at  the  Hotel  de  Paris  at  Monte 
Carlo. 

The  day  Lord  Lyssons  heard  at  Smith's  Bank  that 
Mr.  Graham  was  at  the  Hotel  de  Paris  was  the  very 
day  Peter  Graham  left  it  for  the  villa.  He  had  argued 
Manuella  into  the  state  of  mind  in  which  she  saw  the  un- 
fairness of  keeping  him  out  of  his  own  house.  She  had 
meant  to  pay  him  rent  for  it,  but  this  was  apparently  not 
yet  due.  It  was  his  own  house.  He  complained  of 
sleeplessness  and  of  the  hotel  being  noisy.  And  it  was 
true  he  looked  pale,  pale  and  nervous  she  would  have 
said,  although  nervousness  hardly  expressed  it. 

Already  he  spent  all  his  days  at  the  villa,  in  the  garden, 
or  driving  out  with  her.  She  was  sorry  about  his  in- 
somnia. He  had  been  very  kind  to  her,  overwhelm- 
ingly kind,  when  every  other  friend  she  had  was  away 
or  indifferent. 

Why  should  she  keep  him  out  of  his  own  house  ?  She 
talked  it  over  with  nurse,  and  nurse  saw  no  valid  reason. 
As  for  the  Swiss  servants,  they  openly  deplored  that  he 
was  not  there. 

His  valet  packed  his  things,  and  brought  them  over, 
staying  to  arrange  them  in  his  rooms.  Peter  arrived 
in  time  for  lunch.  During  lunch,  served  on  the  verandah 
in  wonderful  sunshine  and  warmth,  he  said  more  than 
once  how  glad  he  was  he  had  not  to  go  back  to  the  hotel, 
and  that  he  was  sure  the  quiet  would  restore  his  nerves. 
He  looked  or  hinted  other  things ;  and  already  Manuella 
was  uncomfortable,  doubting  her  own  wisdom.  However 
subtle  the  attack,  the  necessity  of  repelling  it  was  vaguely 
in  her  mind.  He  made  no  secret  of  his  pleasure  in  her 
society,  spoke  of  the  charm  of  this  intimate  menage,  let 
fall  a  word,  not  unguarded,  quite  calculated  in  fact,  of 
what  people  might  say  if  they  knew. 

"  But  we  are  Bohemians,  we  can  please  ourselves.  And 
this  pleases  me  so  much." 

Until  then  she  had  not  thought  of  what  people  might 


338  CONCERT    PITCH 

say.  She  was  already  alarmed  and  startled  before  lunch 
was  over,  already  looking  this  way  and  that  for  escape 
from  the  position  into  which  her  impulsiveness  or  impru- 
dence had  landed  her,  and  yet  ashamed  to  admit  her 
uneasiness.  Having  deliberately  aroused  her,  he  set  to 
work  no  less  deliberately  to  reassure  her.  The  whole 
position  pleased  him.  She  would  be  hopelessly  com- 
promised, become  depressed,  and  need  tenderness,  con- 
solation. He  had  an  immense  belief  in  himself,  and  his 
power  of  consoling  a  young  woman  in  such  a  situation. 
She  was  emotional,  passionate,  impulsive,  easily  moved. 
It  was  pity  made  her  assent  to  his  coming  here.  She 
should  pity  him  more.  He  knew  just  the  scene  he 
would  make  for  her  when  she  found  she  had  estranged 
the  world.  He  would  be  equally  or  more  distressed.  In 
anticipation  he  tasted  on  his  palate  these  hors  d'ceuvres 
to  the  feast  of  love.  It  might  be  three  days,  it  might  be 
a  week,  before  the  feast  was  spread.  He  did  not  care  any 
longer  that  she  did  not  love  him,  although  he  knew  it; 
although  he  knew,  too,  that  she  might  come  to  hate  him. 
But  she  could  not  escape,  she  would  be  a  wild  thing 
snared ;  whatever  her  struggles,  he  had  the  strength  and 
subtlety  to  meet  them.  All  through  that  lunch  he  felt 
the  little  flushes  of  his  coming  victory,  sensing  its  delight. 
Of  course  she  would  struggle,  her  uneasiness  now  was  the 
shadow  of  it.  None  of  her  fluctuating  colour  or  spirits 
escaped  him,  he  played  on  them.  This  was  the  first  day 
of  their  life  together. 

"  You  ran  away  with  Migotti,  didn't  you  ?  "  he  asked 
her,  apparently  inadvertently.  He  liked  to  make  her 
flush.  He  was  sure  of  her  now ;  sure  as  a  man  is  that 
he  has  caught  a  bird  when  the  bird  is  fluttering  in  his 
hand.  He  could  be  cruel,  this  Peter  Graham ;  he  liked, 
when  he  caught  a  bird,  to  let  the  tender  thing  flutter  in 
his  hand,  to  feel  the  beat  of  its  wild  heart. 

"  We  must  drink  champagne  to-day,  our  first  day  to- 
gether," was  another  of  the  things  he  said.  And  she 
drank  champagne  to  reassure  herself,  because  she  was 
uneasy,  or  uncomfortable,  and  felt  she  was  to  blame. 


CONCERT    PITCH  339 

She  tried  to  persuade  herself  there  was  no  foundation  for 
thinking  Mr.  Graham's  manner  had  altered,  and  that  it 
was  just  as  it  had  always  been.  She  drank  wine  to  steady 
the  unevenness  of  her  pulses.  Nothing  had  happened, 
nothing  had  altered;  her  imagination  was  playing  tricks 
with  her.  After  lunch  she  would  go  upstairs,  go  into  the 
nursery,  play  with  baby,  talk  to  nurse.  There  was  noth- 
ing of  which  to  be  frightened,  no  reason  why  her  heart 
should  be  beating  unevenly. 

Peter  made  no  effort  to  detain  her ;  he  was  in  no  hurry. 
He  went  to  the  piano  when  she  left  him,  and  began  to  play 
softly;  the  whole  atmosphere  of  this  adventure  was  de- 
lightful to  him.  There  would  be  no  scandal ;  none  of 
them  would  wish  it.  Her  husband  was  in  Rome  with 
Alma  Orilia;  he  could  not  have  expected  her  to  remain 
by  herself  in  London.  Peter  did  not  look  very  far  into 
the  future.  There  is  always  a  way  out  of  such  an  adven-. 
ture  for  a  rich  man.  Alma  would  look  after  Migotti. 

Of  course  he  was  startled  when  Lord  Lyssons'  card 
was  brought  to  him,  wakened  rudely  from  a  pleasant 
dream.  He  ceased  playing  abruptly : 

"You  told  him  I  was  not  here?  Surely  you  had  the 
sense  to  say  I  was  not  here  ?  " 

"  He  did  not  ask.  He  only  said,  '  Tell  Mr.  Graham  I 
wish  to  see  him '  !  " 

But  there  was  no  time  for  the  man  to  tell  his  master 
what  Lord  Lyssons  had  said,  or  what  arguments  he  had 
used  to  ensure  his  message  being  delivered,  for  Waldo 
was  already  in  the  room. 

Peter  rose  quickly  from  the  piano;  he  became  imme- 
diately master  of  himself.  There  were  a  thousand  things 
Lord  Lyssons  might  have  to  say  to  him,  none  of 
them  bearing  on  Manuella.  He  prided  himself  on  his 
manners. 

"  I  am  very  glad  to  see  you ;  I  had  no  idea  you  were 
out  here.  But  everyone  comes  out  here  sooner  or  later. 
What  shall  I  tell  the  man  to  bring  you — whisky  and  soda 
— lemon  ?  We  have  only  just  finished  lunch." 

"We?" 


340  CONCERT   PITCH 

Lord  Lyssons  was  in  no  humour  for  feinting;  he 
started  the  attack  at  once. 

Peter  smiled  and  shrugged : 

"  I  am  afraid  I  must  admit  the  conclusion ;  it  is  Monte 
Carlo,  you  know." 

If  they  were  fencing,  Peter  Graham  had  got  in  the  first 
hit.  But  it  was  a  mere  touch,  a  prick.  Waldo  came  for 
news  of  Manuella.  Was  he  hearing  she  was  here?  It 
was  impossible,  incredible. 

"  Sit  down,  won't  you  ?  "  said  Peter  pleasantly,  fami- 
liarly. 

He  knew  all  at  once,  quite  definitely,  and  without 
doubt,  that  it  was  about  Manuella  Lord  Lyssons  had 
come.  And  that  he  had  a  rival  in  him.  He  had  to  take 
his  line  quickly.  There  are  circumstances  under  which 
any  man  must  retire. 

"  I  am  at  least  alone  for  the  moment.  My  ..."  he 
hesitated  for  half  a  second,  but  smiled  as  he  found  the 
right  word,  "  chatelaine  has  gone  upstairs  to  lie  down. 
We  take  things  easily  here,  dolce  far  niente,  you  know. 
But  I  daresay  you  have  been  through  it  yourself." 
What  he  implied  was  unmistakable.  "  Why  are  you 
standing?  " 

His  manner  said : 

"  I  welcome  you  to  my  home,  but  do  not  be  indiscreet, 
yet  there  is  no  secret  about  my  little  establishment  here." 

Waldo,  not  sitting  down,  nor  coming  further  into  the 
room,  asked  abruptly: 

"  Who  is  with  you  here  ?  " 

"  My  dear  fellow !  "  Peter  expostulated,  smiling  again. 
"  You  cannot  expect  me  to  tell  you,"  was  suggested  by 
his  manner.  What  he  actually  said  was  nothing  to  what 
he  implied. 

"  A  very  charming  young  lady,  believe  me.  We  have 
been  here  nearly  a  month.  Have  you  only  just 
arrived  ?  " 

"  I  want  an  answer.    Is  Manuella  Migotti  here?" 

"  I  am  sorry,  very  sorry  .  .  .  you  force  me  to  it  ... 
I  cannot  answer  your  question.  Why  should  I  ?  Migotti 


CONCERT    PITCH  341 

is  in  Rome  with  Alma  Orilia.  By  whose  authority  do 
you  ask  ?  " 

"  I  will  show  you  my  authority  in  a  moment.  I  only 
want  to  know  if  Manuella  is  here?" 

"  And  if  I  say  yes — if  I  say  that  Madame  Migotti  has 
done  me  the  honour  to  accept  my  protection  ?  " 

"  I  should  reply  that  you  are  a  liar." 

Peter  smiled,  shrugged. 

"  As  you  please.  You  would  perhaps  prefer  she  had 
been  with  you ;  I  understand  she  had  her  choice."  It  was 
a  shot  in  the  dark,  but  reached  home. 

How  the  scene  would  have  ended  is  difficult  to  say. 
What  the  man  was  telling  him  with  easy  smile  and  those 
shrugged  shoulders  was  impossible  to  believe.  Yet  it 
was  certain  she  was  here,  had  left  no  address,  covered 
her  traces !  He  knew  her  wild  impulsiveness. 

"  I  am  certain  you  are  lying,"  he  said  slowly.  He  could 
not  lose  faith  in  her  so  easily. 

And  then  there  was  a  swift  vision,  and  a  cry : 

"  Waldo !  Waldo !    You  here,  Waldo ! " 

The  instant  he  saw  her  at  the  door  doubt  fled.  He 
always  affirms  he  never  had  a  doubt.  Her  face  was  alight 
with  pleasure  at  the  unexpected  sight  of  him,  sound  of 
his  voice. 

"  How  wonderful  you  should  be  here !  " 

"  Isn't  it  ?    Such  an  out-of-the-way  place !  " 

The  lightness  of  his  tone  was  his  protection  against 
himself;  his  heart  was  beating  quickly  and  heavily.  He 
had  to  hold  himself  in  hand. 

Her  laugh  was  as  fresh  as  when  she  was  a  girl. 

"  I  don't  mean  that.  But  how  did  you  find  me  out, 
how  did  you  know  I  was  here  ?  " 

"  It  was  meant  to  be  a  secret,  then  ?  " 

"  You  never  left  me  your  address.  I  did  not  know 
where  you  had  gone  ...  or  why." 

She  was  so  glad  to  see  him,  so  unfeignedly,  genuinely 
glad  to  see  him,  that  he  could  not  maintain  his  cynic  tone. 
In  a  moment  she  had  forgotten  all  her  harsh  thoughts  of 
him,  his  unkindness,  his  neglect,  that  he  had  left  her 


342  CONCERT   PITCH 

alone.  All  she  remembered  was  that  he  was  here;  her 
quick  change  of  mood  was  to  one  of  great  thankfulness. 
She  felt  that  about  which  she  did  not  reason.  She  had 
been  imprudent  in  coming,  impulsive  in  acceding  to 
Mr.  Graham's  wish  to  live  at  the  villa  .  .  .  but  it  was 
all  right  now,  everything  was  all  right.  For  Waldo  had 
come. 

She  forgot  her  host,  unsmiling  now,  pale,  leaning  up 
against  the  mantelpiece. 

Waldo  did  not  forget  him,  and  Peter  would  not  let 
himself  be  forgotten.  He  blundered,  made  the  first  seri- 
ous blunder  of  his  life.  He  tried  to  bluff  the  position. 

"  I  told  Lord  Lyssons  your  being  here  was  a  secret,  that 
you  had  been  good  enough  to  accept  my  protection.  .  .  ." 

Before  Manuella  had  time  to  say  how  good  he  had 
been  to  her,  and  that  is  what  he  anticipated  and  what 
she  would  inevitably  and  gratefully  have  said,  Waldo 
knocked  him  down — knocked  him  down  before  her  as- 
tonished and  horrified  eyes. 

Peter  made  no  defence,  there  was  no  time  for  it.  His 
head  struck  the  fender  in  falling.  Manuella  made  a  rush 
to  succour  him,  to  kneel  by  him,  exclaiming : 

"  How  could  you !  " 

Waldo  put  himself  between  them. 

"  Leave  him  alone ;  he  is  not  fit  for  you  to  touch.  Go 
upstairs,  pack,  and  get  out  of  this  house  as  quickly  as 
you  can."  She  rose  slowly,  gazing  from  one  man  to 
another,  bewildered. 

"  But  ...  " 

"  Go.  If  you  don't,  I  shall  put  you  out."  This  was 
not  the  Lord  Lyssons  she  knew,  this  was  not  Waldo  at 
all.  He  was  deadly  in  earnest,  authoritative,  without 
humour.  "  Damn  you,  don't  dare  to  move  " — this  was  to 
Peter,  who  made  an  effort  to  rise.  "If  you  get  up  I 
shall  knock  you  down  again." 

"  Are  you  alone  with  him  here  ?  "  he  asked,  when  he 
opened  the  door  for  her. 

"  Nurse  and  baby  are  with  me." 

"  I  thought  so."  ' 


CONCERT   PITCH  343 

It  is  not  easy  to  thrash  a  man  who  makes  no  resistance. 
Waldo  did  his  best  when  the  door  closed  behind  her,  but 
made  a  poor  job  of  his  task.  He  thought  of  strangling 
Mr.  Peter  Graham,  but  refrained  before  his  pallor;  the 
lack  of  struggle  made  it  impossible.  He  kicked  him  where 
he  lay,  finally,  contemptuously,  not  even  violently. 

"  Don't  dare  to  move  until  we  are  out  of  the  house. 
You  hear  that,  don't  you  ?  .  .  .  damn  you !  "  He  could 
not  trust  himself  with  the  man,  and  went  out  into  the 
hall,  where  Manuella  joined  him  quickly. 

"  What  happened  ?  What  did  he  do  ?  He  has  been 
so  awfully  good  to  me.  ..." 

"  Oh,  yes !  A  sweet  fellow  !  I'm  sure.  Where's  the 
nurse  and  the  boy.  You've  a  train  to  catch." 

"  A  train.     Where  am  I  going  ?  " 

"  To  Rome,  to  your  husband." 

'"  To  Harston,  but " 

"  Don't  argue." 

He  was  not  himself  at  all  until  she  was  out  of  the 
house.  They  waited  in  the  garden  for  nurse  and  baby 
and  luggage.  She  questioned  him,  but  his  answers  were 
short  and  impatient,  unsatisfying. 

'  I  can't  talk  to  you  here,"  was  his  apology. 

'  But  what  will  you  do  if  I  say  I  won't  come  away?  " 

'  Carry  you  out,  make  you." 

'  I  can't  understand.  ..." 

'  I  know  that — that  is  why  I  am  not  trying  to  explain. 
How  much  longer  is  she  going  to  be?  Can't  she  hurry 
up?" 

Manuella,  with  the  instinct  that  she  had  been  in  danger 
and  escaped,  that  sense  of  reliance,  and  belief  in  him 
which  she  had  always  felt,  said  little  more,  waiting  with 
him.  One  sentence  escaped  her. 

"  Does  Harston  really  want  me  ?  " 

"  He  telegraphed  you  ten  days  since  to  go  to  him  in 
Rome.  But  we  could  not  find  you." 

"He  isn't  ill?" 

"  No,  he  is  not  ill." 

There  was  an  hour  or  two  to  spare  before  the  train  was 


344  CONCERT    PITCH 

due  to  start.  He  took  Manuella,  the  child  and  nurse  to 
the  "  Metropole,"  and  made  what  hasty  preparations  he 
could  for  their  comfort.  He  did  not  intend  to  go  with 
them.  He  must  stay  here  and  see  that  Peter  Graham 
spread  no  tales,  told  no  more  lies.  A  few  words  or  so 
from  Manuella  and  the  position  was  clear  to  him.  The 
fog  in  London  and  the  croupy  child;  the  promise  of 
sunshine  and  warmth ;  her  impulsive  desire  to  get  away, 
misapprehension  of  his  own  silence.  She  was  not  fit  to 
take  care  of  herself,  she  would  never  be  fit.  And  he  ... 
be  would  have  to  stand  aside  again. 

"  Don't  do  anything  foolish  when  you  get  to  Rome, 
anything  impulsive.  Wait  until  I  come." 

"You  are  coming?" 

"  As  soon  as  I  have  settled  up  here,  settled  Mr.  Peter 
Graham."  His  voice  was  vindictive. 

"  You  haven't  told  me  ..." 

Then,  with  his  eyes  on  hers,  he  said  very  quietly: 

"  Do  you  really  need  telling?  " 

She  hesitated,  changed  colour ;  his  eyes  did  not  leave 
her  face  as  he  repeated  his  question. 

"  You  need  not  answer,"  he  said  quickly,  turning  away. 

"  But  I  want  to  answer."  She  moved  over  to  him 
and  he  waited. 

"Well?" 

She  hung  her  head  and  spoke  in  a  voice  so  low  he  had 
to  stoop  to  hear  it. 

"  I  ...  I  ...  guess " 

She  was  close  to  him.  He  wanted  to  put  his  arms 
about  her,  hold  her.  To  all  the  world  she  was  brave  and 
strong,  a  woman ;  but  to  him  she  was  always  something 
of  a  child. 

'  You  know  how  foolish  you  have  been  ?  " 

'  Don't  scold  me." 

'  You  deserve  it." 

'  That  is  why." 

'  Where  did  you  think  I  was  ?  " 

'  I  didn't  think." 

'  Nor  trust  me !  "    He  kept  his  restraint  upon  himself, 


CONCERT    PITCH  345 

went  on  quickly :  "  Perhaps  you  were  right.  I  suppose 
I  am  rather  erratic.  I  might  have  gone  questing,  looking 
for  windmills  ..." 

She  wanted  to  know  all  about  Harston,  what  lay  before 
her  in  Rome,  and  he  was  glad  to  change  the  topic  from 
Peter  Graham  and  her  imprudence. 

"  I  will  telegraph  to  him  to  meet  you.  If  it  misses 
him,  if  by  any  chance  he  is  not  at  the  station,  you 
go  there."  He  gave  her  an  address.  "  They  are  com- 
fortable rooms,  and  they  are  being  kept  vacant  for  you. 
About  Harston  ..."  he  paused.  "  Well,"  he  walked 
towards  the  window,  looked  out  on  the  blue  Mediterra- 
nean, tried  for  the  best  words.  "  They  are  not  together, 
not  in  any  sense  of  the  word  together.  But  she  has  some 
sort  of  feeling,  blackguardly  feeling,  for  him,  which  he 
does  not  return;  he  would  be  glad  to  be  out  of  her 
toils.  He  only  wants  her  to  sing  his  music.  I  think 
you  can  help  him.  He  is  weak,  you  know.  She  will 
throw  him  over  eventually,  as  sure  as  possible  she  will 
throw  him  over.  There  is  her  husband,  too,  to  be 
reckoned  with.  It  is  quagmire  for  you  ..."  he 
paused  again,  "  but  it  is  the  right  thing  " — he  was  talking 
with  his  back  to  her,  practically  to  himself — "  I  suppose 
it's  the  right  thing.  ..."  He  broke  off. 

Again  she  came  over  to  him ;  she  was  a  creature  of 
swift  movement,  and  put  her  hand  on  his  arm. 

"  You  want  me  to  do  this  ?  "  He  looked  down  on  her, 
on  those  questioning  eyes,  those  quivering  lips. 

"  Is  there  any  choice  ?  "  he  asked  slowly.  The  lovely 
flush  mounted,  darkening  her  eyes ;  her  breath  was  un- 
even. "  Whom  God  hath  joined.  It  isn't  just  a  cliche, 
I  suppose?" 

"  No,  I  suppose  not." 

All  that  was  unuttered  between  them  he  saw  in  her 
dejected  eyes,  she  in  his.  Then  very  gently  he  took  her 
hand  from  his  arm. 

"  It  is  time  we  were  starting." 

If  he  sighed  she  hardly  heard  it.  She  was  going  back 
to  Harston,  to  her  duty ;  she  herself  had  made  the  choice 


346  CONCERT   PITCH 

between  the  two  men.  On  Waldo  she  could  have  leaned, 
Harston  would  always  lean  on  her ;  she  braced  her 
strength.  Afterwards,  at  the  station,  when  he  had  found 
the  carriage  for  them  and  stood  at  the  door  talking,  she 
seemed  to  understand  better  what  she  had  escaped. 

"  If  it  had  not  been  for  you  ..."  she  began. 

"  That  is  what  I  want  you  to  know."  He  spoke  quickly, 
and  for  once  entirely  without  reserve.  "  It  will  never 
again  be  a  case  of  '  if  it  were  not  for  me/  I  am  going  to 
look  after  you,  even  if  it  has  to  be  from  a  distance.  I 
hope  not,  I  think  I  am  man  enough  for  that  to  be  un- 
necessary. But  you  will  not  be  left  alone  again.  To  me 
your  impulsiveness  and  your  courage  are  both  beautiful, 
part  of  you;  I  would  not  have  them  altered.  But  .  .  . 
they  are  dangerous;  there  are  always  precipices,  quag- 
mires, crevasses.  ..."  He  had  been  serious  long 
enough.  "  You're  a  born  blunderer,  you  know,"  he  said, 
but  his  eyes  were  tender.  "  Don't  do  anything  foolish 
in  Rome.  I'll  be  there  as  soon  as  possible." 

"  Have  you  got  everything  ?  " 

The  whistle  sounded,  the  flag  waved,  the  train  moved 
off. 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

SHE  was  to  travel  all  night  and  be  at  Genoa  in  the 
morning.  The  next  evening  she  would  be  in  Rome. 
It  was  a  corridor  train;  the  compartment,  which  she, 
with  the  baby  and  nurse,  was  to  occupy,  waking  or  sleep- 
ing, during  the  next  twenty-six  hours,  contained  only 
three  seats.  Nurse  was  in  a  condition  of  offended  dig- 
nity, having  been  unduly,  and,  to  her  mind,  needlessly, 
hurried.  She  intruded  her  sense  of  responsibility,  and 
spoke  of  the  risk  of  moving  about  in  winter-time  with  a 
croupy  child.  She  would  not  allow  the  window  to  be 
opened.  This  circumspection,  with  which  she  could  not 
quarrel,  drove  Manuella  out  of  the  carriage  to  where,  on 
the  narrow  wooden  ledge,  miscalled  a  corridor  seat,  she 
was  able  to  obtain  the  questionable  advantage  of  a  slight 
draught,  combined  with  the  soot  from  the  engine.  To  be 
uncomfortable,  however,  suited  her  mood.  Neither  back- 
ward nor  forward  could  she  look  with  satisfaction.  She 
had  been  a  fool ;  her  cheeks  burned  when  she  thought 
what  a  fool  she  had  been.  They  burned,  too,  when  she 
thought  of  Waldo.  He  had  knocked  Peter  Graham 
down ;  to  think  of  the  reason  of  his  doing  so  was  impos- 
sible. Then  there  was  her  meeting  with  Harston  to  face. 
What  would  he  say  to  her,  how  excuse  himself?  It 
would  be  horrible  to  hear  him  excuse  himself,  and  to 
know  how  little  she  really  cared.  She  would  help  him  if 
he  needed  help,  but  it  would  be  dreary  work.  But  Waldo 

347 


348  CONCERT    PITCH 

would  come  soon  .  .  .  she  ought  not  to  dwell  upon 
that.  She  sighed  impatiently,  watching  the  darkening 
panorama  of  the  country,  hating  all  that  was  before  her. 

A  fellow-traveller,  alone  in  the  next  compartment, 
occupied  also  with  his  own  affairs,  wondered  idly  why  she 
sat  there,  and  not  in  her  compartment.  Had  she,  too, 
lost  everything  at  the  tables  ?  Was  she  travelling  alone  ? 
But  he  was  only  vaguely  interested ;  he  had  other  things, 
more  important,  on  his  mind. 

At  seven  o'clock  dinner  was  served.  Nurse  was  still 
sulky  and  said  she  did  not  want  any  dinner. 

Having  overcome  the  difficulty  of  progressing  along 
the  narrow  corridor  of  the  quickly-moving  train,  Manu- 
ella  found  herself  in  the  sparsely-occupied  dining-car. 
There  was  a  married  couple  at  the  further  table  with  a 
daughter  almost  as  old  as  themselves ;  possibly  English ;  a 
party  of  Americans,  shrill  and  assertive ;  and  there  were 
two  German  commis-voyageurs  in  travelling  deshabille, 
tweed  caps  and  slippered  feet,  who  looked  at  her  with 
appraising  eyes. 

The  waiter  asked: 

"  For  one  ? "  and  indicated  a  seat  at  the  table  near 
the  door,  where  already  there  was  another  diner. 

As  the  meal  proceeded,  she  looked  at  her  ins-a-vis  with 
a  slight  curiosity,  finding  it  difficult  to  guess  his  nation- 
ality. The  black  morning-coat  and  grey  trousers  in 
which  he  travelled  showed  he  was  not  an  Englishman, 
although  they  were  English  clothes ;  his  fine  and  slender 
hands  proved  he  was  no  German.  Manuella  decided  this 
before  the  soup  was  served.  She  wanted  to  think  of  any- 
thing but  that  which  was  before  or  behind  her.  When  he 
spoke  to  the  waiter,  ordering  a  bottle  of  Chianti  and  a 
Nocera,  his  bad  French  suggested  he  must  be  either 
Italian  or  Spanish.  It  was  not  until  later  that  she  learned 
he  was  a  Sicilian.  He  was  obviously  uninterested  in 
German  bagmen  and  their  wives,  in  shrill  Americans,  and 
provincial  Frenchmen.  He  was  abstracted  whilst  he  ate 
his  soup,  making  notes,  or  what  looked  like  figures,  in  a 
little  note-book.  He  had  a  new  system  to  work  out,  one 


CONCERT   PITCH  349 

that  had  only  just  occurred  to  him,  and  this  time  it  was 
certainly  an  infallible  one. 

Before  dinner  was  over,  the  infallibility  seemed  less 
certain,  and,  in  any  case,  he  did  not  propose  to  try  his 
fortune  again ;  he  had,  indeed,  no  fortune  to  try.  Then 
he  became  vaguely  aware  that  opposite  to  him  was  the 
girl  who  had  sat  so  long  on  that  uncomfortable  ledge  in 
the  corridor,  and  that  she  was  both  young  and  beautiful. 
Sicilian  ladies  do  not  travel  alone.  Juan  Orilia  only  knew 
of  two  sorts  of  ladies :  those  who  travelled  alone  and 
those  who  did  not.  He  was  ready  for  distraction  on  the 
long  journey  before  him;  the  steady  purpose  of  his  jour- 
ney was  not  one  upon  which  to  dwell.  He  had  none  of 
those  "  resources  in  himself  "  which  make  solitude  pleas- 
ant to  men  of  greater  intellectual  endowment.  He  rarely 
read,  and  his  imagination  for  many  years  had  been  lim- 
ited to  "  runs,"  maximums,  and  combinations  of  numbers, 
concerned  a  little  savagely,  perhaps,  about  the  cagnotte 
and  the  amount  it  absorbed,  and  always  hopefully  of  a 
succession  of  eights  and  nines.  He  had  a  palate,  and 
found  the  dinner  served  in  the  train  inadequate  to  gratify 
it.  He  had  also  an  eye — two,  in  fact — black,  capable  of 
softness  in  expression  when  they  were  not  on  a  croupier 
or  a  changeur,  the  turn  of  a  wheel  or  a  card.  Manuella 
decided,  for  one  cannot  help  coming  to  some  decision  as  to 
a  man  who  sits  at  the  same  dining-table,  that  he  would 
have  been  handsome  if  he  had  not  looked  so  careworn, 
if  his  face  had  been  unfurrowed.  They  were  gambler's 
furrows,  gambler's  wrinkles  round  his  handsome  eyes; 
but  she  did  not  recognize  this.  She  thought  he  must 
have  had  troubles. 

"  Mademoiselle  is  looking  for  something?  "  was 
the  first  sign  that  he  acknowledged  her  existence. 
He  spoke  in  French,  but  it  was  obviously  not  his  native 
tongue. 

"  Only  for  the  salt." 

"  But  there  is  none  on  the  table.  If  you  will  permit 
me,  I  will  call  the  waiter." 

After  the  opening  the  salt  gave  him  it  was  easy  to 


350  CONCERT    PITCH 

ask  if  she  had  ordered  wine,  if  she  would  allow  him  to 
suggest.  .  .  .  He  had  the  manners  of  a  man  of  the  world. 
She  had  the  manners  of  the  world  in  which  she  had  found 
herself  since  her  marriage,  the  artist  world.  There  was 
no  reason  she  should  not  answer  when  she  was  spoken  to, 
or  even  initiate  talk.  There  was  nothing  of  the  "  young 
man "  about  her  vis-a-vis;  it  would  have  been  difficult 
to  see  him  as  less  than  fifty  years  old.  He  had,  neverthe- 
less, an  air  of  distinction,  and  seemed  occupied  with 
weighty  affairs.  Manuella,  knowing  nothing  of  zero,  of 
un  apres,  or  of  two  en  cartes  following  each  other  and 
upsetting  all  calculation,  decided  he  must  be  a  diplomat, 
an  Italian  statesman  with  the  Vatican  in  his  mind,  or 
perhaps  a  republican  politician  concerned  with  the  peo- 
ple's welfare.  With  such  a  one,  since  he  seemed  bent  on 
making  himself  agreeable,  there  was  no  harm  in  discus- 
sing the  food  or  wine  in  the  express  train,  the  weather, 
or  the  need  of  better  ventilation  for  the  dining-car. 

"You  have  been  at  Monte  Carlo?"  was  a  more  per- 
sonal question.  But  she  was  prepared  also  to  discuss  the 
mountains  and  the  blueness  of  the  sea. 

"  And  what  sort  of  luck  did  you  have  ? "  was  un- 
expected and  needed  explanation.  It  was  with  difficulty 
she  made  him  believe  she  had  never  played  a  sou,  never 
been  inside  the  rooms.  The  rest  of  the  dinner-hour  was 
spent  in  an  endeavour  to  explain  to  her  all  that  she  had 
missed.  He  said  that  he  wished  he  had  had  an  oppor- 
tunity of  meeting  her  there,  of  initiating  her.  He  spoke 
of  the  proverbial  luck  of  the  novice,  and  was  genuine  in 
his  regret  that  he  had  had  no  opportunity  of  exploiting 
it.  She  was  really  quite  attractive,  and  although  he  had 
little  time  for  women  nor  inclination,  during  the  next 
few  hours  there  would  be  nothing  better  to  do. 

It  was  not  until  the  end  of  the  meal  that  he  became 
aware  that  she  was  not  travelling  alone,  that  she  had  not 
only  a  nurse  but  a  baby  with  her.  A  compliment  or  two, 
and  a  suggestion  that  she  might  care  to  sit  in  his  com- 
partment in  preference  to  the  corridor,  met  with  a  recep- 
tion that  persuaded  him  his  first  impression  had  been  a 


CONCERT   PITCH  351 

mistaken  one.  He  was  really  a  gentleman  except  in 
money  matters.  Manuella  said  she  had  no  thought  of 
returning  to  Monte  Carlo. 

It  did  not  seem  indiscreet  to  tell  him  she  was  going 
to  Rome  for  the  production  of  her  husband's  opera, 
77  Traditore.  She  was  surprised  at  the  interest  he  took 
in  the  news. 

"  So  he  is  your  husband !  Harston  Migotti  is  your 
husband !  "  He  was  silent  after  that,  silent  for  quite  a 
long  time. 

"  And  are  you,  too,  musical  ?  "  he  asked,  when  he  could 
no  longer  be  silent. 

She  answered  that  she  sang  a  little;  hesitatingly,  with 
a  smile,  she  admitted  she  had  once  sung  in  opera.  He 
did  not  requite  her  confidence  with  his  own ;  he  was  not 
proud  of  being  the  husband  of  Madame  Alma  Orilia. 
But  he  was  very  much  interested  to  know  that  this  was 
the  wife  of  the  composer  of  //  Traditore,  the  man  whose 
name  had  been  coupled  with  that  of  Alma  Orilia,  his 
own  wife,  on  whose  account  he  was  now  travelling  to 
Rome.  He  thought  he  knew  now  why  she  looked 
unhappy. 

"  She  is  a  devil,  that  wife  of  mine,"  he  thought ;  "  a 
devil!" 

When  Manuella  went  to  her  coupe-lit  after  dinner  was 
over,  the  coupe-lit  she  shared  with  the  nurse  and  baby, 
she  was  still  in  ignorance  of  the  identity  of  the  gentleman 
with  whom  she  had  shared  the  dinner-table. 

She  was  disappointed  at  the  narrow  insufficiency  of 
accommodation  on  the  sleeping-car,  and  decided  on  oc- 
cupying the  lower  bed.  Nurse  clambered  into  the  top 
berth  with  baby  in  her  arms,  and  Manuella,  partly  un- 
dressed, set  herself  to  sleep  as  well  as  she  was  able  on 
the  shelf  beneath.  She  had  tried,  by  talking  to  her 
fellow-traveller,  to  relegate  to  the  background  of  her 
mind  all  perplexity  and  troubled  thoughts,  but  they 
thronged  back  to  her  now.  To  the  accompaniment  of  the 
throb  of  the  engines,  the  occasional  long-drawn  shriek  of 
the  whistle,  her  restless  mind  looked  back  into  the  past 


352  CONCERT   PITCH 

and  pursued  the  future.  What  would  have  happened  if 
Waldo  had  not  come  to  the  villa?  Nothing  would  have 
happened ;  of  course,  nothing  would  have  happened.  But 
on  that  which  it  was  difficult  to  believe,  it  was  impossible 
not  to  dwell.  She  turned  uneasily  on  her  narrow  bed 
and  went  off  on  another  track.  Waldo  had  neither  for- 
gotten nor  neglected  her.  He  had  sought  out  Harston. 
She  wondered  what  had  happened  between  them;  why 
Waldo  thought  she  ought  to  be  with  or  near  him ;  what 
Harston  had  telegraphed?  Had  she  been  a  good  wife  to 
him  ?  Can  you  be  a  good  wife  to  a  man  you  do  not  love, 
but  must  criticize?  If  she  had  married  Waldo  ...  It 
was  not  possible  to  get  comfortable  in  such  a  bed,  nor 
to  sleep.  How  long  the  night  was  going  to  be ! 

The  light  was  obscured  by  a  dark  green  shade ;  if  she 
moved  the  shade  she  could  read.  She  had  a  book  some- 
where; Waldo  had  put  it  in  at  the  last  moment;  but 
if  she  got  up,  turned  up  the  light,  and  moved  the 
shade,  nurse  would  sulk.  She  would  lie  still,  think  of 
nothing,  count  sheep  going  through  a  gate,  force  her- 
self to  sleep. 

She  had  almost  succeeded,  notwithstanding  the  shriek 
of  the  engine,  the  iron  rattle  of  wheels  on  the  rails,  the 
creak  of  the  couplings.  She  had  left  off  hearing  noises, 
counting  sheep ;  her  brain  was  relaxing,  vaguely  drifting 
to  drowsy  silence,  when  she  was  brought  back  abruptly. 
Someone  was  knocking,  knocking  at  the  door  of  the 
compartment;  she  sat  up  to  listen.  There  was  no 
doubt  about  it;  rattling  as  well  as  knocking.  She 
called  out : 

"  Wait  a  minute." 

Whilst  she  slid  out  of  bed,  and  sought  for  her  slippers, 
she  wished  whoever  was  knocking  would  be  more  careful, 
and  speak  low  to  avoid  waking  baby.  It  was  probably 
for  the  examination  of  the  luggage. 

The  conductor  of  the  sleeping-car  stood  at  the  door, 
without  his  distinctive  cap,  with  alarmed  face  and  tongue 
so  agitated  that  it  was  difficult  at  first  to  understand 
what  it  was  he  wanted  of  her.  His  French  was  quite 


CONCERT    PITCH  353 

fluent,  but  he  was  a  Swiss,  and  in  his  agitation  he  spoke 
a  patois. 

"  Madame  will  be  so  good  .  .  .  Madame  has  with 
her  a  socur  de  charite.  There  is  no  doctor  on  the  train. 
A  gentleman  in  the  next  compartment  has  been  taken  ill ; 
if  there  is  no  help  for  him  he  will  die.  If  madame  would 
spare  her  sceur  de  charite.  ..." 

The  nurse's  dress  had  misled  him ;  she  was  not  a  sceur 
de  charite,  she  was  an  English  hospital  nurse,  with  an 
uncertain  temper. 

"  I  don't  know  if  she  would  come.  ..." 

Manuella  was  doubtful,  but,  fortunately,  nurse  woke 
up  at  this  juncture  and  agreed,  if  Manuella  would  stay 
with  the  child,  to  see  whether  there  was  anything  she 
could  suggest. 

"  Come  back  and  tell  me.  ..." 

They  were  already  out  of  hearing,  and  she  was  left 
alone — alone  with  the  sleeping  child.  She  knew  it  was 
the  man  with  whom  she  had  talked  at  dinner  that  had 
met  with  an  accident.  She  pictured  him  in  the  next  com- 
partment, dying  perhaps.  She  wished  she  could  have 
been  of  use.  She  hated  sitting  here  doing  nothing, 
waiting;  the  noise  of  the  train  speeding  through  the 
night  and  the  darkness  made  everything  worse.  She 
groped  for  her  clothes,  dressed  as  well  as  she  was  able, 
and  waited  again.  It  seemed  a  long  time  before  anyone 
came.  Then  it  was  the  conductor. 

"  She  says  will  you  come  ?  She  wants  to  get  back  to 
the  baby ;  it  is  not,  after  all,  so  bad." 

Manuella  went  with  him  gladly;  anything  was  better 
than  sitting  with  her  thoughts. 

"What  was  it?" 

"  He  has  cut  himself." 

At  first  she  thought  he  must  have  tried  to  :ommit  sui- 
cide, tried,  and  succeeded ! 

The  narrow  compartment  was  full  of  the  scent  of 
blood,  through  the  open  window  was  a  rush  of  cold  air, 
and  the  light  flared  and  flickered  from  the  broken  lamp. 
There  was  glass  on  the  floor,  and  blood,  everywhere 


354  CONCERT   PITCH 

blood;  nurse's  dressing-gown  was  stained  with  it,  also 
her  hands,  and  there  was  a  smear  of  it  on  her  face.  Only 
one  bed  was  made  up  in  this  compartment ;  on  it  there  lay 
the  moaning  man.  A  bandage  was  on  his  head,  already 
dark  with  a  darkness  that  spread ;  but  it  was  the  smell  of 
the  blood  that  made  her  feel  faint  and  sick. 

"  What  is  it  ?    What  has  happened  ?  " 

It  was  only  an  accident.  Nurse  and  the  conductor 
explained  that  the  broken  glass  of  the  lamp  was  re- 
sponsible. 

"  He  must  have  struck  his  head  against  it  when  he 
stood  on  the  bed  and  reached  to  put  up  his  bag.  But 
it  was  lucky  I  heard  and  came  in.  He  would  have  bled 
to  death!  Mon  Dieu!  how  he  bled!  " 

The  broken  glass  had  cut  an  artery.  Nurse  had  bound 
it  up,  but  not  before  a  great  deal  of  blood  had  been  lost. 

"  Someone  must  sit  with  him  to  see  it  doesn't  break 
out  again.  I'm  going  back  to  my  baby." 

She  may  have  meant  she  was  going  back  to  her  bed. 
Accidents  were  not  adventures  to  her,  only  ordinary 
incidents,  and  she  was  cold,  wanted  to  get  back. 

Manuella,  of  course,  agreed  to  stay.  Why  not?  She 
could  not  sleep;  he  had  sat  at  her  table  at  dinner;  she 
had,  as  it  were,  an  acquaintance  with  him,  and  could 
not  let  him  bleed  to  death.  By  this  time  there  were  other 
people  in  the  corridor  asking  what  had  happened ;  dis- 
hevelled, cold,  or  frightened  travellers,  useless  in  their 
pyjamas  and  night-clothes.  There  was  no  doctor  amongst 
them,  nor  anyone  with  knowledge  of  what  were  best  to 
do.  They  glanced  in  and  hurried  away.  They  were 
anxious  to  avoid  any  responsibility,  to  get  away  from  the 
dreadful  sight.  It  was  a  dreadful  sight ;  the  blood  had 
splashed  everything — coagulated  human  blood. 

Manuella,  as  they  scurried  away,  thought  it  was  fortu- 
nate that  nurse  had  been  there,  and  able  to  tie  an  artery. 
There  came  a  time  when  she  thought  differently.  For 
the  present,  she  was  quite  willing  to  sit  with  the  invalid, 
releasing  nurse  to  go  back  to  the  child.  It  needed  cour- 
age, she  could  sit  nowhere  that  was  not  blood-stained; 


CONCERT    PITCH  355 

every  time  the  train  jerked,  it  seemed  the  wound  might 
reopen.  Nurse  went  back  to  bed,  the  conductor  to  his 
post ;  Manuella  said  she  felt  equal  to  the  task,  and  would 
ring  if  he  became  worse. 

Left  alone  with  the  unconscious  wounded  man,  she  tore 
off  pieces  of  her  own  underlinen  to  make  fresh  bandages ; 
she  got  water  and  bathed  his  head,  subordinating  her 
dread  and  disgust  to  his  need.  Nurse  had  given  her 
instructions,  and  she  carried  them  out  faithfully. 

"  Don't  you  let  him  move  or  stir.  Get  a  teaspoonful 
of  brandy  with  a  little  water  in  it  down  his  throat  from 
time  to  time.  Cover  his  feet  up  as  warm  as  possible. 
Change  the  bandage  when  it  soaks  through." 

Whenever  Juan  Orilia  opened  his  exhausted  eyes  dur- 
ing that  long,  endless  night,  it  was  to  look  into  those  he 
had  admired  at  dinner.  She  saw  the  recognition  in  his. 

"  You  are  not  to  speak.  You  are  to  lie  still,  and  take 
the  brandy  I  am  feeding  you  with.  You  have  had  an 
accident,  but  you  will  soon  be  all  right;  the  train  is 
slowing  down." 

"A  railway  accident?" 

"  No,  you  must  have  been  reaching  up  to  put  a  bag 
or  hat-box  on  the  shelf." 

"  Oh,  yes !    I  remember." 

"  You  cut  your  head  with  the  glass  of  the  broken  lamp, 
we  think.  You  have  lost  a  great  deal  of  blood ;  it  was  an 
artery.  But  now  it  has  stopped." 

"  It  is  very  good  of  you  to  be  here  with  me." 

Gambler,  roue,  reckless  and  decave  though  he  might  be, 
no  one  had  ever  found  fault  with  Juan  Orilia's  manners. 
Those  manners  of  his  had  captivated  the  less  well-bred 
prima-donna  ten  long  years  ago,  when  she  had  made  her 
debut  in  Rome  and  been  so  proud  of  his  attentions.  It 
was  the  same  story  with  Juan  Orilia  as  it  was  now  with 
Harston  Migotti.  He  had  not  succumbed  to  her  charms, 
but  resisted  them.  Even  in  Rome  one  could  gamble,  and 
women  were  not  nearly  as  attractive  to  him  as  the  green 
cloth.  She  knew  him  to  be  poor,  with  impoverished 
estates,  knew  that  the  trente-et-quarante  at  Palermo 


356  CONCERT    PITCH 

would  complete  what  "  The  Travellers'  Club  "  in  Paris 
had  begun.  Alma  Des  Voeux  was  then  at  the  beginning 
of  her  career,  barely  twenty.  All  the  critics  said  that 
hers  was  the  voice  of  the  century;  all  Rome  had  gone 
mad  over  her,  and  she  could  have  had  her  choice  of  lov- 
ers, even  of  husbands.  Juan  Orilia  did  not  woo  her  pas- 
sionately ;  he  wooed  her  indifferently,  or  hardly  at  all.  In 
truth,  he  could  not  make  up  his  mind  as  to  whether  he 
wanted  her  or  not.  The  gambler  is  never  the  lover.  But 
his  indifference  or  indecision  made  her  certain  that  she 
wanted  him.  There  were  so  many  other  men  about  her, 
and  none  of  them  were  cool  but  Juan.  She  married  him 
before  his  mind  was  really  made  up ;  he  hardly  knew  how 
it  had  come  about.  She  loved  him  violently  for  at  least 
two  years,  and  she  cannot  truthfully  be  said  to  have  had 
much  satisfaction  for  her  love.  Their  quarrels  began  be- 
fore their  honeymoon  ended.  She  was  gifted  with  a 
grand  voice,  a  capacity  for  acting,  and  a  sense  of  music 
beyond  what  might  have  been  expected.  But  socially  she 
belonged  to  the  lower  strata  of  Neapolitan  middle-class, 
and  outside  her  music  she  had  no  education.  He  made 
her  feel  her  inferiority.  She  loved  him  the  better  for  this 
in  a  tiger-cat,  inconvenient  way.  But  she  hated  him 
also,  at  times,  even  more  fiercely.  In  the  end,  their  lives 
became  a  compromise.  He  was  to  be  found  in  all  the 
gambling  centres  of  Europe,  she  in  the  Opera  Houses  of 
its  cities.  Each  went  his  or  her  own  way,  yet  the  tie  be- 
tween them  held.  When  the  Prince  Persipola  had  pur- 
sued her,  to  the  scandal  of  Vienna,  some  four  years  after 
her  marriage,  Juan  Orilia  turned  up  cool  and  indifferent 
from  Nice,  and  fought  a  duel  with  him.  When  Achilla 
Bernheim,  of  Paris,  made  his  attentions  conspicuous, 
Juan  came  from  Biarritz  to  persuade  him  that  Paris  was 
not  healthy  just  then.  And  Achille  Bernheim  needed 
little  persuading. 

But  this  was  in  the  past ;  everything  was  in  the  past 
now  with  Juan  Orilia,  excepting  his  intention  to  get  even 
with  his  tiger-cat  of  a  wife,  and  to  prove  to  her  that 
what  he  had  threatened  he  would  carry  out.  He  had 


CONCERT   PITCH  357 

written  to  her  to  that  effect,  and  she  had  answered  that 
he  was  mistaken,  that  Signor  Migotti  was  in  Rome  with 
his  wife.  Now  the  lie  was  proved,  for  here  was  Migotti's 
wife;  they  had  sent  for  her  in  order  to  deceive  him. 
Well,  he  was  not  deceived.  She  was  not  fit  to  live,  that 
wife  of  his ;  he  would  not  leave  her  behind  him. 

All  through  that  long  night  Manuella  tended  Juan 
Orilia,  but  he  never  told  her  his  name.  She  sat  on  the 
little  carpet-stool  by  his  side,  feeding  him  with  the  tea- 
spoonfuls  of  brandy  and  water,  and  changing  his  band- 
ages. Every  time  he  woke  he  found  those  dark  eyes 
gazing  at  him  with  solicitude ;  they  were  sad  eyes,  and  he 
thought  he  knew  why  they  were  sad.  Once,  notwith- 
standing her  prohibition  to  talk,  he  asked  her  if  she  was 
going  to  Rome  because  she  had  tired  of  Mentone,  and 
hastily  she  answered : 

"  My  husband  sent  for  me." 

Of  course,  that  was  what  he  suspected ;  she  was  to  be 
there  for  a  blind,  for  his  deception. 

The  long  night  dragged  on.  The  train  lumbered  and 
jerked.  When  it  was  at  its  worst,  she  kept  her  hands 
upon  the  bandages,  fearful  lest  the  bleeding  should  break 
out  again.  But  it  was  really  only  a  superficial  accident, 
and,  when  the  artery  had  been  tied,  there  was  nothing  to 
fear;  the  slight  concussion  was  relieved  by  the 
bleeding. 

All  that  night,  growing  stronger  as  the  hours  went  on, 
and  recovering  from  shock,  Juan  was  conscious  of  her 
encompassing  kindness.  She  fetched  the  pillows  from  her 
own  bed  to  supplement  his.  About  four  in  the  morning, 
he  told  her  she  could  safely  leave  him.  He  said  he  could 
not  thank  her  adequately.  She  replied  that  she  wanted 
no  thanks,  anybody  would  have  done  as  much  as  she. 
She  said  she  would  not  leave  him,  for  the  wound  might 
reopen;  she  could  sleep  as  well  sitting  up  here  as  lying 
down  in  the  next  compartment.  Then  she  gave  him  a 
little  more  brandy  and  water,  and,  as  nurse  had  sug- 
gested, put  a  hand  on  his  pulse. 

"  It  is  really  getting  stronger." 


358  CONCERT    PITCH 

"  I  know,  madame.    You  can  safely  leave  me." 

"  Hush !  It  is  I  who  am  the  nurse,  and  so  must  judge." 
She  smiled  down  on  him.  Only  that  lingering  sense  of 
chivalry  had  made  him  bid  her  go.  He  wanted  her  to 
stay.  He  had  his  countrymen's  nervous  organization, 
and  dreaded  solitude  in  his  weakness.  He  only  slept  be- 
cause he  knew  she  was  there  watching. 

Before  morning  there  dawned  in  his  somewhat  callous 
heart  something  that  softened  and  altered  it ;  not  vitally, 
because  at  fifty  neither  a  man's  heart  nor  his  nature 
changes  vitally,  but  temporarily.  And  dawn  in  the  east 
is  red.  Before,  he  had  been  thinking  only  of  his  own 
wrongs;  now  he  thought  also  of  hers.  This  girl  had 
given  up  her  night's  rest  for  him. 

"  I  am  really  better  now;  let  us  talk  a  little,"  he  said 
later  on,  when  it  was  full  daylight.  Soon  they  would  be 
in  Genoa. 

"  I  don't  think  it  will  be  very  good  for  you,"  she 
answered  doubtfully.  She  was  really  getting  sleepy,  and 
had  difficulty  in  suppressing  her  yawns.  She  could  see 
for  herself  now  that  she  was  no  longer  needed,  but  held 
her  post  until  she  should  be  relieved. 

"  I  feel  like  Casabianca,"  she  told  him;  and  then  had 
to  explain  "  The  boy  stood  on  the  burning  deck." 

"  I  am  going  to  ask  you  a  strange  question,  the  strang- 
est possible  question." 

"  I  shouldn't  if  I  were  you." 

That  is  what  Waldo  would  have  said,  she  knew  it  as 
she  uttered  it ;  if  they  had  married  she  would  have  grown 
like  him.  She  was  very  sleepy,  losing  control  over  her 
thoughts. 

"  Are  you  unhappy  ?  " 

Juan  Orilia  raised  himself  on  his  elbow  to  ask  her; 
and  she  was  alarmed  lest  the  bleeding  should  break  out 
again.  But  he  would  not  be  put  off,  repeating  his  ques- 
tion. 

"  Is  anybody  happy  ?  " 

She  evaded  a  more  definite  answer  when  it  seemed 
that  he  would  not  be  put  off.  He  lay  without  speaking 


CONCERT    PITCH  359 

after  that,  and  she  thought  he  slept  again.  She  very 
nearly  dozed  off  on  that  uncomfortable  carpet-stool,  but 
came  to  herself  with  a  start. 

<l  Is  it  about  your  husband  and  Alma  Orilia  you  are 
distressed  ?  "  She  had  come  to  herself  with  a  start,  but 
now  was  broad  awake. 

"  Who  are  you  ?  How  do  you  know  ?  How  on  earth 
do  you  know  ?  " 

"  You  are  going  to  Rome  to  join  him,  because  they 
have  sent  for  you  ?  " 

"  Yes !  But  who  are  you  ?  what  are  my  affairs  to 
you?  No,  don't  move."  And  again  her  hand  was  on 
the  bandage. 

"  I  am  Alma  Orilia's  husband." 

He  had  been  a  patient,  hardly  a  personality;  her  care 
for  him  had  been  an  instinctive,  not  a  reasoned,  labour. 
Now  she  stared  at  him.  Juan  Orilia — Alma  Orilia's 
husband ! 

"  She  shall  not  make  you  unhappy,"  he  said.  "Go 
now,  but  be  content.  You  shall  not  always  be  unhappy. 
Leave  everything  to  me." 


CHAPTER  XXXII 

THE  rest  of  the  journey  was  blurred  with  fatigue. 
Baby  was  fretful  and  nurse  irritable.  Manuella 
might  have  slept,  but  between  them  they  made  it  im- 
possible. 

They  reached  Rome  at  six  o'clock  in  the  evening.  It 
was  raining,  and  on  the  wet  and  dismal  platform  were 
facchini  with  their  monotonous  cries,  the  glimmering 
lamps  shone  on  shivering,  impatient  passengers.  She 
looked  up  and  down,  bade  nurse  stand  by  the  luggage, 
and  went  outside  the  station.  Here,  notwithstanding 
the  rain,  it  was  brilliantly  alight,  and  she  could  see  the 
large  buildings  opposite,  the  broad  road,  the  waiting  lines 
of  carriages  and  cabs,  omnibuses  for  luggage;  but  she 
could  not  see  Harston  Migotti.  Waldo  had  telegraphed 
that  she  was  coming,  but  her  husband  had  not  come  to 
meet  her.  She  was  alone,  sick  with  fatigue  and  the 
depression  of  it, 'heart-sick,  too. 

Going  back  to  where  nurse  stood  beside  the  luggage, 
with  baby  in  her  arms  and  disapproval  on  her  counte- 
nance, she  was  accosted  by  one  of  the  men  labelled  "  In- 
terprete,"  and  wearing  a  "  Cook's  "  band  round  his  hat. 
He  spoke  interpreter's  English,  barely  comprehensible, 
and  his  other  languages  were  little  better.  Still  she  made 
out  that  he  was  asking  her  if  she  was  Madame  Migotti. 
When  she  replied  affirmatively  her  immediate  troubles 

360 


CONCERT   PITCH  361 

were  over.  The  man  was  fully  instructed ;  there  was  a 
cab  waiting  for  her;  rooms  had  been  engaged. 

That  night  she  was  too  tired  to  ask  from  whom  his 
instructions  came.  The  rooms  to  which  he  took  them 
were  in  the  Piazza.  Barberini,  large  and  airy,  but  to  Eng- 
lish eyes  comfortless,  one  room  opening  into  another, 
without  privacy  or  warmth.  Waldo  had  engaged  them 
before  he  left  Rome;  the  telegram  to  Cook's  was  an 
afterthought.  He  had  done  everything  possible ;  foresee- 
ing that  her  husband  might  be  too  much  occupied  to 
meet  her.  That  Alma  would  make  it  impossible,  contrive 
and  intrigue  that  she  should  go  without  this  attention, 
he  may  also  have  foreseen.  Manuella,  after  the  first 
moment  of  disappointment,  was  too  tired  to  care.  All 
she  wanted  to  do  was  to  get  between  sheets  and  sleep  off 
her  fatigue. 

In  the  morning  she  sent  a  letter  to  Harston,  merely 
announcing  her  arrival.  The  answer  came  back  quickly : 

"  Dear  One,  I  will  be  with  you  as  soon  as  possible ; 
this  is  only  to  bid  you  welcome.  But  there  are  only 
three  days  more,  and  nothing  is  ready;  I  am  almost  in 
despair.  Kiss  my  Siegfried  for  me.  I  am  with  you  both 
in  my  heart." 

It  was  true  that  everyone  was  working  night  and  day, 
and,  as  is  the  way  with  theatrical  enterprises,  everything 
was  behind. 

At  Alma  Orilia's  flat  the  confusion  concentrated.  From 
morning  until  night,  for  the  last  week  and  more,  people 
had  been  coming  and  going,  messages,  telegrams,  letters, 
flowers  arriving,  the  telephone  ringing,  Stollmont  rushing 
in  and  out,  distracted.  Now  it  was  the  scenery,  and  now 
the  costumes  ;  always  there  were  the  artists  whom  nobody 
could  satisfy.  At  the  last  moment,  Fadini,  who  wa,s 
playing  Paulinus,  threw  up  his  part.  De  Ochoa,  who 
replaced  him  at  a  moment's  notice,  had  to  be  rehearsed 
privately  as  well  as  on  the  stage.  It  was  difficult  music — 
how  difficult  only  the  orchestra  knew.  But  after  three 
weeks  with  Migotti  there  was  not  a  musician  among 
them  who  was  not  devoted  to  him  and  his  music.  The 


362  CONCERT   PITCH 

chorus-master  was  another  devotee.  But  for  the  choruses 
and  the  orchestra,  and,  above  all,  the  great  prima-donna, 
Stollmont's  anxiety  would  have  deepened  to  despair.  As 
it  was,  he  was  secretly  exhilarated,  and  only  outwardly 
raging,  gesticulatory  and  vociferous.  The  stage-machin- 
ery was  elaborate,  and  three  days  before  the  performance 
still  imperfect ;  an  essential  piece,  only  procurable  in 
Paris,  never  arrived  at  all.  There  was  no  end  to  the  mis- 
haps, and  no  words  of  Stollmont's  were  strong  enough  to 
characterize  the  urbane  slackness  of  the  Italian  work- 
men. He  swore  and  raged  in  vain;  confusion  became 
ever  worse  confounded.  The  premiere  was  to  be  three 
days  after  Manuella  arrived  in  Rome.  Into  those  three 
days  three  months  of  work  must  be  crowded. 

So  Harston  told  her,  when  at  length  he  came,  with 
disordered  hair  and  wild  eyes.  He  said  he  was  glad  she 
was  here;  he  kissed  her,  and  even  the  child,  and  asked 
if  there  was  anything  she  needed.  He  looked  hastily  at 
her  rooms,  and  said  they  were  splendid,  and  Lord  Lys- 
sons  had  been  clever  in  securing  them. 

"  Shall  I  come  over  to  the  hotel  and  pack  for  you,  and 
move  your  things  here  ?  "  Manuella  asked  him.  Hur- 
riedly he  answered  that  he  thought  it  better,  after  all,  to 
stay  where  he  was  until  after  Friday. 

"  I  am  nearer  the  theatre.  Day  and  night  we  are 
rehearsing." 

But  day  and  night,  too,  he  was  at  Alma  Orilia's  flat. 
Alma  had  heard  no  further  from  her  husband  after  writ- 
ing that  letter  in  which  she  had  told  him  that  his  sus- 
picions were  unfounded,  anything  he  had  heard  unjusti- 
fied, and  that  the  composer  of  //  Traditore  had  his  wife 
with  him  in  Rome. 

After  she  had  written  to  Juan,  and  when  Manuella  was 
on  her  way  to  Rome,  Alma  Orilia's  jealousy  had  flamed 
up  again.  She  would  hardly  let  Harston  out  of  her  sight. 
She  could  not  do  without  him ;  every  question  must  be 
submitted  to  his  judgment.  There  were  consultations 
with  Stollmont,  with  Poliaghi,  with  chorus-master,  car- 
penters, even  gas-men.  When  Harston  was  not  at  the 


CONCERT   PITCH  363 

theatre  he  was  at  the  flat.  The  flat  was  near  the  Cos- 
tanzi,  and  his  hotel  near  both.  All  these  things  he  told 
Manuella,  but  not  that  Alma  Orilia  was  passionately 
jealous  of  his  wife,  and  it  was  necessary,  even  vital,  to 
keep  her  in  good-humour.  He  would  have  told  her  even 
this  if  he  had  understood  her  fully.  As  it  was,  his  idea 
was  only  to  keep  the  two  women  apart  until  after  the 
great  event.  What  would  happen  then  he  had  no  idea,  he 
did  not  wish  to  think.  There  were  times  when  he  adored 
Alma  Orilia,  those  were  when  she  was  singing  his  music. 
There  were  times  when  he  had  no  feeling  for  her  at  all, 
but  something  very  like  dread;  those  times  when  she 
made  scenes,  spoke  virulently  of  his  "  drag  of  a  wife," 
and  showed  her  coarse  vindictiveness.  Because  she  knew 
how  slender  was  her  hold  on  him,  she  flaunted  it  for  all 
Rome  to  see. 

It  seemed  plausible  that  he  should  not  wish  to  move 
until  after  Friday,  reasonable  even  that  he  did  not  wish 
Manuella  to  be  present  at  the  first  performance. 

"  I  shall  be  more  nervous  if  I  know  you  are  there,"  he 
said.  But  he  meant  that  he  could  not  risk  Alma  seeing 
her  in  the  house.  Once  Manuella  saw  them  driving  to- 
gether. Harston's  face  was  alight,  he  was  talking 
eagerly,  and  they  were  sitting  very  close.  If  she  was 
depressed  when  she  got  back  to  her  rooms,  it  was  not  on 
that  account,  but  because  she  felt  how  useless  she  was 
here.  She  was  doing  nothing,  making  no  effort,  such  as 
Waldo  expected  of  her.  Waldo  meant  her  to  fight  this 
influence  to  which  Harston  was  submitting.  But  she 
could  not.  What  could  she  give  him  in  compensation  for 
Alma  Orilia's  glorious  voice  and  power  in  the  musical 
world  ?  Nothing,  not  even  love. 


Juan  Orilia  had  lost  a  great  deal  of  blood;  he  felt 
weak,  unfit,  although  not  unstable  for  his  purpose.  He 
rested  three  days  in  a  clinic,  not  informing  his  wife  of  his 
whereabouts.  When  he  got  better,  and  sat  under  the  tree, 
near  the  gates  of  the  Villa  Medici  in  the  Pincio,  he,  too, 


364  CONCERT   PITCH 

like  Manuella,  saw  her  driving  with  Harston  Migotti. 
He  went  there  the  next  day,  and  saw  them  again.  That 
was  the  day  of  the  first  performance  of  //  Traditore.  He 
had  meant  to  go  to  the  theatre,  but  it  was  too  late  to 
secure  a  seat.  He  had,  however,  many  friends  in  Rome, 
and  could  visit  them  in  their  boxes.  On  the  great  night 
he  dressed  quite  carefully,  dined  well,  and  arrived  in 
time  for  the  Overture. 

The  Theatre  Costanzi  is  bare  and  undecorated,  it  is 
not  divided  into  stalls  and  circles  after  the  manner  of  an 
English  house;  there  are  no  velvet  upholstered  chairs, 
there  is  no  luxury  but  the  luxury  of  the  performances. 
The  boxes  are  built  around  the  amphitheatre,  and  it  is 
the  fashion  to  pay  visits  to  them,  to  pass  from  one  to 
another.  The  one  reserved  for  Royalty  was  little  differ- 
ent from  the  rest.  Juan  Orilia  finally  found  himself  in 
the  one  opposite  to  this — the  one  belonging  to  the  Mar- 
quis de  Rudini,  whom  he  had  left  behind  in  Monte  Carlo. 
He  was  welcomed  by  the  Marquis's  son  and  daughter-in- 
law,  who  inquired  after  their  father's  health,  and,  glad  of 
the  latest  news,  detained  him.  He  heard  that  great  ex- 
pectations had  been  formed  of  the  new  opera ;  that  it  was 
said  the  composer  was  the  genius  for  whom  all  Italy  was 
waiting.  The  secret  of  Migotti's  birth  was  known,  but 
he  was  an  Italian  notwithstanding. 

"  They  say  the  music  is  worthy  even  for  your  wife  to 
sing." 

Juan  acknowledged  the  compliment.  He  thought  they, 
too,  looked  at  him  curiously,  finding  it,  perhaps,  strange 
that  he  should  be  here.  In  Rome  a  man's  wife  may  have 
a  lover,  but  not  in  Sicily.  Certainly  not  the  wife  of  a 
Sicilian  gentleman.  Rudini  might  have  known  that,  he 
thought.  But  he  made  no  sign.  He  sat  with  them  and 
chatted,  of  mutual  friends,  the  cold  weather,  runs  at  the 
Casino,  the  coming  races. 

The  Royal  party  arrived  punctually,  the  little  bustle 
of  their  entry  being  soon  quieted.  Now  they  listened  to 
the  Overture.  Everybody  had  come  to  listen.  The 
papers  had  paved  the  way ;  critics,  who  had  been  present 


CONCERT    PITCH  365 

at  the  rehearsals,  or  had  read  the  score,  were  enthusi- 
astic in  praise.  They  said  it  was  an  advance  on  the  best 
Italian  traditions,  that  the  music,  passionate,  precise,  and 
profound,  was  of  an  enduring  character. 

From  the  opening  the  result  was  never  in  doubt. 
There  were  three  acts  and  five  tableaux,  all  of  them  spec- 
tacular and  dramatic  in  the  widest  sense,  the  interest  ever 
culminating.  With  the  scena  that  signalized  her  first 
appearance,  Alma  Orilia,  as  Queen  Cartismandua,  cap- 
tured and  held  the  house ;  the  whole  of  the  first  act  was  a 
sensation.  After  her  second  song  there  was  a  murmur 
among  the  audience  as  of  leaves  in  an  autumn  wind.  In 
the  boxes  one  heard  it  said  that  nothing  in  modern  music 
could  compare  in  intensity  with  the  Trio  at  the  end  of 
the  ret.  The  clapping  of  hands  and  bravas  were  as  a 
tempest  raging.  The  singers  were  called  and  recalled, 
and  from  the  critics  one  heard  "  E  magnifico,"  "  Un 
nuovo  Maestro,"  and  unanimous  praise. 

The  second  act  was,  if  possible,  more  brilliant  than  the 
first ;  the  sparkling  opening  chorus  went  to  the  head  like 
champagne.  It  is  unusual  for  such  an  audience  to  inter- 
fere with  its  own  pleasure  by  premature  tribute,  but 
throughout  there  were  indefinable  approving  murmurs; 
enthusiasm  was  pent  up,  to  burst  out  in  vociferous 
bravi  and  bravissimi  and  continuous  clapping  of 
hands. 

The  last  act  was  introduced  by  a  mournful  orchestral 
prelude,  a  complete  change  of  key.  Men  held  their 
breath,  "  Un  trionfo !  "  "  Un  miracolo !  "  One  caught 
the  words  on  moving  lips.  When,  at  the  end,  Alma  Orilia 
sang  the  prayer  cavatina  as  only  she  could  sing  it,  the 
murmur  and  sound  in  the  audience  ceased  as  if  auto- 
matically ;  they  were  spellbound.  Then,  whilst  they  were 
still  breathless,  came  the  wonderful  quartet  leading  to 
the  superb  love-duet  and  the  grand  finale.  The  opera  is 
now  as  well  known  as  The  Chariot  Queen,  but  one  has  to 
remember  that  this  was  the  first  presentation. 

The  curtain  fell,  and  an  almost  indescribable  scene 
followed.  Men  stood  on  chairs,  shouting  themselves 


366  CONCERT   PITCH 

hoarse;  the  noise  reached  the  roof  and  seemed  to  tear 
it ;  again  and  again  came  that  thunder  and  volume  of 
bravi  and  bravissimi.  Flowers  were  thrown  on  to  the 
stage,  and  even  jewellery. 

The  performers  who  first  came  forward  were  greeted 
tumultuously ;  it  seemed  as  if  there  would  be  nothing  left 
for  the  principals.  The  ladies  curtsied  and  smiled,  and 
were  pelted  with  flowers.  The  gentlemen  in  their  togas 
and  filamented  heads  bowed  and  laid  their  hands  upon 
their  hearts,  knowing  they  had  been  in  fine  voice.  Stoll- 
mont  had  secured  a  truly  wonderful  cast.  There  was  a 
furore  of  cries  for  Alma  Orilia.  "  Orilia!  "  "  Orilia !  " 
they  shouted,  and  presently  Migotti's  name  was  also 
heard. 

Alma  came  on,  and  curtsied  low ;  the  curtain  fell  and 
was  raised  five  separate  times.  She  was  before  them 
deprecating,  accepting,  smiling  at  their  applause,  which 
again  broke  and  reverberated  like  thunder.  The  sixth 
time  she  was  seen  holding  the  composer  by  the  hand, 
indicating  that  it  was  to  him  the  applause  was  due.  She 
held  his  hand,  and,  all  at  once,  impulsively,  she  kissed  it ! 
And  that  was  wonderful  to  the  excitable  Italians,  who 
responded  with  a  sea  of  waving  programmes  and  recog- 
nition. 

When  Juan  Orilia  saw  his  wife  kiss  the  composer's 
hand  before  the  whole  house,  before  all  Rome,  he  grew 
very  white ;  when  she  let  go  his  hand  and  made  that  low, 
sweeping  curtsey  to  him,  as  if  she  would  have  knelt  at 
his  feet,  he  took  steady  aim.  The  Rudinis  had  left  the 
box,  and  he  was  quite  alone;  the  moved  and  shouting 
house  was  in  semi-darkness,  but  the  stage  was  well-lit. 
She  had  kissed  his  hands ;  now  it  seemed  she  would  kiss 
his  feet! 

The  aim  was  low,  the  report  hardly  heard  amid  the 
uproar.  The  moment  the  pistol  went  off,  the  second  be- 
fore, perhaps,  Migotti  had  stooped  to  raise  her.  She  was 
acknowledging  his  genius,  telling  the  house  the  applause 
must  be  for  him.  He  had  bowed  and  smiled,  and  smiled 
and  bowed,  and  even  shrugged,  for  what  more  could  he 


CONCERT   PITCH  367 

do  or  say?  In  England  he  had  been  hissed,  humiliated, 
neglected;  but  here  in  Italy  they  understood.  This  was 
his  moment,  the  fruition,  the  acknowledgment  of  his 
work.  Now  he  could  afford  to  be  modest. 

"  I  owe  it  to  you,"  he  said  low  to  Alma,  who  had  in- 
terpreted him  so  grandly. 

"  I  want  not  your  gratitude,  but  your  love." 

Their  simultaneous  words  were  simultaneously  ar- 
rested. The  applause  was  for  both  of  them,  the  shot  for 
only  one.  Afterwards  it  was  said  that  he  saw  the  raised 
pistol,  and  flung  himself  in  front  of  her.  The  bullet  was 
not  intended  for  him,  but  it  was  him  it  reached.  The 
composer  fell  forward  on  his  face;  the  great  singer 
reeled,  and  would  have  fallen  too.  Stollmont  was  on  the 
stage  in  an  instant,  horror  and  incredulity  on  his  face. 
The  curtain  was  quickly  lowered. 

For  the  moment  no  one  in  the  house  knew  what  had 
happened.  Then  there  was  another  shot,  or  was  it  a 
click?  .  .  .  The  applause  and  clapping  of  hands  died 
away  suddenly.  Now  the  house  was  full  of  fear,  gripped 
and  paralysed,  silenced  with  fear. 

"  Una  Bomba,  Una  Bomba!  " 

There  was  no  doubt  the  detonating  sound  was  a  bomb. 
A  cold  shiver  went  through  the  audience. 

An  hysterical  voice  shrieked  "  La  Reina!  "  and  a  more 
terrible  hush  fell,  an  instant's  hush,  full  of  horror  and 
dread.  There  was  the  sound  of  sobbing,  of  a  passionate 
sobbing.  Before  anyone  knew  or  understood,  in  that 
hush  behind  which  one  heard  sobbing,  there  came  the 
hurried  entrance  of  the  heavy-footed  Carabinieri  in  their 
black  uniforms  with  the  red  facings,  the  white  shoulder 
knots  conspicuous  in  the  gloom.  All  at  once,  panic  seized 
the  still  darkened  house,  unreasoning,  unreasonable  panic, 
and  the  word  "  bomb  "  came  in  hoarse  whispers  from 
choked  throats  through  whitening  lips.  Pelting,  hurry- 
ing feet,  pushing,  struggling  people,  groans  and  terror, 
and  always  the  recurring  phrases : 

"  The  Queen  has  been  assassinated." 

"  Someone  threw  a  bomb.  ..." 


368  CONCERT   PITCH 

Two  had  already  exploded,  there  would  be  others.  .  .  . 
"  Run,  run,  run.  Get  out  of  the  burning  house." 

The  house,  of  course,  was  not  burning  at  all,  but  quite 
safe  and  solid.  //  the  curtain  had  been  left  up  instead  of 
being  so  quickly  lowered ;  if  the  orchestra  had  played ;  if 
someone  had  had  the  presence  of  mind  to  turn  up  the 
lights,  what  followed  might  have  been  averted.  But  it 
was  in  semi-darkness  and  silence  that  men  trampled  on 
each  other,  on  the  women,  only  frantic  to  get  out,  to  get 
away,  that  chairs  were  overturned,  impeding  the  way  to 
the  inaccessible  exits.  .  .  .  Already  the  audience  had  been 
overwrought,  now  they  were  quite  without  reason. 

"  Ha  assassinate  la  Reina!  " 

"  II  Re  e  mortal  " 

"  Una  bomba!  " 

"  La  Camorra!  " 

Before  order  was  restored,  before  the  lights  were 
turned  up,  or  the  soldiers  summoned,  the  theatre  sur- 
rounded, and  the  truth  known,  before  it  was  realized  that 
there  was  neither  bomb  nor  fire,  the  disaster  had  come 
about.  The  stampede,  cyclonic  and  irresistible,  sweeping 
fainting  women  from  their  feet,  crushing  and  trampling 
upon  them,  carried  death  in  its  onrush.  Long  will  the 
first  night  of  //  Traditore  be  remembered  in  Rome.  The 
news  of  the  panic  was  flashing  along  the  telegraph  wires 
before  the  news  of  the  overwhelming  success  of  the 
opera  had  been  cleared  from  the  line. 

PANIC  AT  THE  FIRST  PERFORMANCE  OF 

"  IL  TRADITORE." 
MANY  LIVES  LOST. 

There  were  not  many  lives  lost,  but  many  women  were 
injured,  and  one  child  was  suffocated.  A  dozen  rumours 
were  afloat,  none  of  them  touching  the  truth.  It  was 
midnight  before  the  reporters  had  got  to  work,  and  the 
headlines  had  been  corrected. 


CONCERT    PITCH  369 

MURDER  OF  THE  YOUNG  COMPOSER. 

SUICIDE  OF   THE   MURDERER. 
DRAMA  OF  LOVE  AND  JEALOUSY. 

There  had,  of  course,  been  no  bomb,  nor  attack  on 
the  King  and  Queen  of  Italy.  The  Camorra  was  not 
responsible  for  the  catastrophe,  only  the  Latin  tempera- 
ment. The  King  and  Queen  had  left  before  the  applause 
changed  to  panic  with  such  appalling  and  dramatic  sud- 
denness. 

There  was  tragedy  behind  the  curtain,  tragedy  in  the 
private  box,  where  Juan  Orilia  lay  with  a  bullet  in  his 
brain  and  the  smoking  pistol  still  in  his  dead  hand. 

But  far  more  poignant  was  the  tragedy  in  that  apparta- 
mento  in  the  Piazza  Barberini  where  Manuella,  waiting  to 
hear  the  news  of  his  triumph,  heard  instead  the  tramp 
of  the  bearers  who  brought  her  young  husband  back  to 
her  to  die. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 

WHEN  the  truth  was  known,  a  chorus  of  pity  and 
imprecation  broke  out.  There  was  bound  to  be 
an  objective  for  it,  since  Juan  Orilia  was  dead,  and 
Harston  Migotti  dying.  Not  admiration  but  execration 
now  greeted  the  name  of  Alma  Orilia,  for  whom  the  bul- 
let was  intended  that  brought  down  the  composer  of  the 
finest  opera  that  had  been  heard  in  Italy  within  the 
memory  of  man. 

The  whole  story  was  in  the  Fanfulla  the  next  morning, 
contradicted  in  the  Capitate,  and  confirmed  in  the  Civttta- 
Catolica,  with  appropriate  comments.  It  was,  after  all,  a 
love  story,  owing  to  which  twenty-seven  men  and  women, 
who  had  had  no  concern  in  it,  were  in  hospitals  or  nurs- 
ing homes.  Juan  Orilia  had  perished  by  his  own  hand, 
and  in  the  house  in  the  Piazza  Barberini,  where  two  Cara- 
binieri  stood  at  the  door,  and  doctors  went  in  and  out, 
while  reporters  waited  for  any  scrap  of  news  borne  by 
hushed  voices,  lay  Harston  Migotti,  the  great  composer 
of  The  Chariot  Queen  and  //  Traditore,  shot  through  the 
lung,  bleeding  internally.  There  was  no  hope  that  he 
would  live  through  the  day ;  his  wife  was  with  him,  and 
there  was  a  child  too!  The  great  soprano  was  under- 
stood to  be  prostrate  with  grief.  But  it  was  understood 
also  that  the  authorities  had  already  advised  her  that  the 
sooner  she  recovered  from  her  prostration  and  left 

370 


CONCERT    PITCH  371 

Rome,  the  sooner  would  their  anxiety  on  her  behalf  be 
allayed. 

There  are  so  many  ways  of  telling  a  story ;  there  were 
papers  less  reputable  than  the  Fanfulla  and  the  Capitale, 
less  restrained  than  the  Civilta  Catolica.  The  Diritto, 
for  instance,  and  the  Tribuna,  might  seize  on  the  oppor- 
tunity and  attack  the  Government  that  permitted  Alma 
to  remain.  The  Rugantino  might  be  expected  to  make 
fun  of  the  events,  lewd  and  tragic  fun,  that  would  rouse 
the  populace  against  her  more  surely  than  a  serious  at- 
tack. Certainly  Rome  was  no  place  for  Alma  Orilia  in  the 
first  days  after  the  calamity  at  the  Costanzi  Theatre. 

It  is  not,  however,  with  her  that  this  story  concerns 
itself.  She  was  smuggled  safely  out  of  Rome,  and  has 
not  sung  there  again,  nor  is  she  ever  likely  to.  But 
in  America,  when  the  story  arrived  in  a  garbled  version, 
it  was  believed  to  be  a  great  "  scoop  "  or  asset,  and  was 
responsible  for  the  enormous  fee  Stollmont  was  able  to 
secure  for  her  in  the  ensuing  spring. 

In  the  Piazza.  Barberini,  Harston  Migotti  lay  on  Man- 
uella's  bed,  very  pale,  past  hope,  almost  past  speech, 
waiting  for  the  end.  At  first  they  were  for  carrying  him 
to  the  Ospedale ;  it  was  he  himself  who  had  given  them 
the  direction  here,  where  his  young  wife  received  him 
in  the  small  hours  of  that  incredible  night,  and  instead 
of  wailing,  as  an  Italian  woman  would  have  done,  showed 
herself  cool  and  practical,  astonishing  bearers  and  doctors 
and  hurriedly-summoned  nurses. 

"  It  is  over,"  was  what  Harston  said  to  her  when  they 
laid  him  on  her  bed. 

She  had  no  words  for  him,  nor  for  the  tragedy  that 
had  overwhelmed  him.  An  agony  of  pity  wrung  her 
heart  and  overflowed  her  eyes.  She  was  told  of  the  great 
success,  of  the  overwhelming  applause. 

"  Ah !  but  you  should  have  been  there !  "  one  of  the 
bearers  said.  "  Nothing  has  ever  been  seen  like  it.  You 
could  have  heard  the  '  bravas  '  two  streets  away,  it  was 
as  if  the  roof  must  come  off." 

Recognition,    applause,    success    had    come    too    late. 


372  CONCERT    PITCH 

At  first  she  thought  he  would  recover,  that  he  could  not 
be  going  to  die ;  it  was  too  cruel,  too  impossible !  She 
had  not  loved  him,  but  he  was  the  father  of  her 
child. 

"  You  mustn't  die,  I  can't  let  you  die!  "  she  exclaimed, 
through  her  falling  tears,  passionately ;  "  it  can't  end 
like  this.  ..." 

They  examined  and  probed  the  wound,  gave  him  opi- 
ates, then  stimulants,  but  acknowledged  they  were  help- 
less. After  the  doctors  had  gone  he  lay  very  quiet,  very 
patient.  He  wanted  Gerald  Streatfield  sent  for.  He 
never  spoke  once  of  Alma  Orilia,  for  whom  his  life  had 
been  sacrificed. 

Manuella,  in  that  passionate  pity  of  hers,  without  a 
thought  now  of  herself,  or  that  her  name  and  the  story  of 
his  faithlessness  to  her  would  be  in  everybody's  mouth, 
leaned  over  and  whispered  to  him: 

"  Do  you  want  Alma  Orilia  ?  I  don't  mind.  Shall  I 
send  for  her  ?  " 

"  I  want  Gerald."    He  had  very  little  voice  left. 

"  I  have  telegraphed,  but  he  can't  be  here  until  to- 
morrow. Can  I  do  anything;  do  you  want  to  tell  me 
anything?  " 

"  I  want  someone  who  can  write  music.  Listen !  hush ! 
see  that  everything  is  still.  I  hear  them  marching, 
marching.  It  is  my  coffin  that  is  the  head  of  the  proces- 
sion. And  oh !  such  music !  Write  .  .  .  write." 

He  struggled  to  a  sitting  position,  panting,  filled  with 
excitement. 

"  Write,"  he  said  again,  and  his  lips  parted  as  if  he 
would  sing. 

"  You  have  heard  it,  taken  it  down  ?  .  .  .  " 

His  eyes  were  lit  up ;  harsh  sounds  now  came  bubbling 
through  the  gathering  froth  on  his  lips. 

"  How. fine  it  is,  how  grand.  .  .  .  You  hear  it,  you 
have  written  it  down  ?  " 

Quite  suddenly  the  light  was  gone  from  his  eyes  and 
they  went  dull  and  glazed  as  his  head  fell  back.  What 
he  heard  he  took  with  him.  Celestial  music  it  may  well 


CONCERT   PITCH  373 

have  been,  and  his  soul  escaped  in  the  swell  of  its  har- 
monies. For  presently,  as  they  stiffened,  there  was  a 
smile  on  his  dead  lips. 

Reverently  the  Sister,  watching  with  Manuella,  passed 
her  hand  over  his  eyes.  With  the  smile  stiffening  on  his 
lips  he  looked  inconceivably  happy. 

Manuella,  sinking  on  her  knees,  sobbing,  said: 

"  I  am  sure  he  is  hearing  it." 

"  He  is  with  the  good  God,"  the  Sister  answered. 


Waldo  was  not  there  until  the  next  day.  Gerald 
Streatfield,  broken-hearted,  was  in  time  for -the  funeral. 
All  Rome  followed  Harston  Migotti  to  the  grave,  and 
the  prelude  to  the  third  act  of  //  Traditore  was  played 
as  his  funeral  march.  Gerald  was  always  convinced  that, 
had  he  arrived  in  time,  he  would  have  understood  and 
taken  down  what  Migotti  had  tried  to  sing.  This  he 
says  in  his  biography,  that  all  too  short  biography,  in 
which  he  likened  Harston  Migotti  on  his  death-bed  to 
Mozart,  and  speaks  of  the  Requiem. 

Manuella  cried  from  the  day  Harston  died  until  after 
the  funeral.  Every  hour  it  seemed  sadder;  she  re- 
proached herself  that  she  had  done  so  little  for  him, 
nothing  at  all  for  him ;  all  her  prayers  and  promises  had 
been  of  no  avail.  He  was  too  young  to  die.  It  seemed 
to  her  that  nothing  so  sad  had  ever  happened.  She  could 
only  cry  and  cry.  Waldo  did  not  even  try  to  comfort  her ; 
he  knew  it  was  too  soon,  and  that  he  must  let  her  grief 
have  sway.  Afterwards,  when  the  time  came,  she  would 
be  glad  she  had  been  here.  And  there  would  be  other 
things  he  might  say  to  her.  Now  she  could  only  cry  for 
her  young  husband,  and  wish  she  had  loved  him  better. 
The  dead  leave  always  this  behind  to  deepen  the  well 
of  tears  and  make  more  aching  tender  the  heart.  So 
many  kindnesses  undone,  so  much  sympathy  not  shown, 
silences  that  now  can  never  be  broken.  She  could  only 


374  CONCERT    PITCH 

cry  for  all  these,  and  cry,  believing  it  would  never  be 
different  with  her. 

After  the  funeral  was  over,  the  inquiry  opened  and 
adjourned,  and  adjourned  again;  after  the  papers  had 
found  other  topics,  and  she  was  on  her  way  back  to 
England,  she  was  still  crying.  The  tears  came  now  from 
a  numbed  heart,  and  a  numbed  brain.  She  was  only  a 
girl  in  her  weeds,  but  so  pale  and  forlorn  of  demeanour 
that  no  beauty  of  youth  was  left  to  her.  It  was  difficult 
for  her  to  get  away  from  the  Piazza  Barberini ;  the  time 
of  her  going  was  known,  and  emotional  spectators 
crowded  around  and  cried  with  her. 

"  Oh,  la  Povera,  la  poveretta!  come  I' ha  amato!  " 

"  E  colui,  ha  amato  un'  altra." 

"Oh,  la  poveretta,  la  poveretta!  muore  d'amore!" 
burst  from  pitying  lips. 

At  the  station  it  was  even  worse,  a  larger  crowd,  ex- 
clamations of  pity,  cries  of  sympathy,  a  woman  darting 
forward  pressed  flowers  into  her  hand.  She  was  too 
blinded  by  her  tears  to  see  anything  clearly,  her  sobs 
choked  her  thanks. 

"  Ed  anche  il  bambino!  che  tristesza!  " 

It  would  have  gone  hard  with  Alma  Orilia  had  she 
appeared  at  this  moment;  they  would  have  torn  her 
limb  from  limb.  There  were  no  hard  words  for  Juan 
Orilia.  Any  Italian  would  have  done  the  same;  but  it 
was  his  wife  he  should  have  killed.  Curses  were  heaped 
upon  her;  a  she-wolf  of  a  woman.  "  Maledetta!  " 
"  Infame!  " 


In  Circus  Road,  Lulu  Marston  came  to  Manuella,  who 
would  see  no  one  else.  To  Lulu  she  declared,  between  her 
sobs,  that  she  could  never  get  over  it,  but  would  cry  all 
her  life  for  the  boy  who  had  met  death  singing.  Lulu 
knew  better,  but  refrained  from  saying  so,  and  let  her 
cry  in  her  womanly  arms,  telling  her  how  good  it  was 
to  die,  having  written  //  Traditore  and  The  Chariot 
Queen,  and  what  Russell  had  said  about  it. 


CONCERT    PITCH  375 

"  What  am  I  to  do  for  her?  "  she  asked  Waldo. 

"  Give  her  time,"  was  his  sapient  answer. 

It  needed  time,  that  was  all.  But  longer  than  either  of 
them  thought  possible.  Many  months  were  to  pass  be- 
fore even  Waldo  could  reach  the  source  of  those  tears. 

"  I  could  have  done  so  much  more  for  him.  If  I  had 
stayed  in  London,  been  there  when  he  telegraphed  for 
me  ...  if  I  had  never  gone  to  Mentone,  or  met  Juan 
Orilia ;  if  I  had  loved  him  better,  or  at  all.  ..." 

"  He  would  always  have  loved  music  best,"  Waldo 
answered  soberly,  glad  that  at  last  she  voiced  her  feelings. 

He  was  very  gentle  with  her,  although  perhaps  it  hurt 
him  that  she  should  cry  so  long  for  Harston  Migotti.  He 
spent  hours  at  the  house,  playing  with,  or  talking  to,  the 
baby,  avoiding  any  reference  to  her  future,  which,  at 
present,  Manuella  only  saw  in  a  penitent's  cell,  in  which 
she  would  sit  all  the  rest  of  her  life  crying  for  the  hus- 
band she  had  not  loved  in  his  lifetime. 

"  You  are  glad  at  least  you  were  with  him  at  the  last," 
he  said  to  her  one  day.  Harston  had  lain  four  months 
now  in  his  grave  in  Rome,  and  spring  was  on  the  way. 

"  He  only  wanted  Gerald." 

"  It  was  not  your  fault  that  Tommy  Traddles  was  in 
England." 

'  Yes,  it  was — in  a  way,  it  was.  I  wanted  Gerald  out 
of  the  house ;  if  he  had  been  more  with  him,  and  known 
what  was  going  on  ..." 

"  He  would  have  made  more  notes." 

The  tone  was  dry,  but  he  altered  it. 

"  Grieve,  if  you  must  grieve."  He  went  on  hastily, 
"  I  know  you  must.  Although,  in  a  way,  it  was  a  fine 
death ;  he  was  at  the  acme  of  his  triumph,  saw  the  shot 
coming,  and  flung  himself  in  front  of  her,  gave  up  his  life 
for  the  woman  who  loved  him.  But  don't  paint  devils. 
Leave  off  reproaching  yourself  for  what  was  no  fault  of 
yours." 

"  He  did  not  love  her.  I  asked  him  if  he  wanted  to 
see  her,  to  say  good-bye,  and  he  never  even  answered." 

"  Neither  did  he  love  you.  little  girl."   He  thought  it 


376  CONCERT   PITCH 

was  time  to  say  it.  "  There  is  no  room  for  love  in  the 
life  of  a  self-centred  genius.  You  are  going  to  be  angry, 
I  see  that  already.  It  is  a  long  time  since  you've  been 
angry  about  anything  isn't  it?" 

"  It  does  not  make  it  any  better  because  he  did  not 
love  me,"  she  answered  forlornly,  without  the  flash  of 
her  eyes,  or  the  anger  he  expected. 

"  No,  I  don't  suppose  it  does.  But  I  thought  I  would 
remind  you." 

That  was  the  first  time  since  she  had  been  free  that 
their  eyes  met.  Her  eyes  were  dim  with  tears,  but  they 
were  not  too  dim  to  see  the  kindness  in  his.  He  had 
waited  long  enough.  It  was  time  he  asserted  his  claim 
that  their  eyes  met.  He  threw  an  unexpected  arm  about 
her  waist  and  drew  her  to  him. 

"  Hush !  don't  struggle ;  you  belong  here,  in  my  arms. 
Haven't  they  been  empty  long  enough  ?  "  But  she 
struggled  against  him. 

"  Don't !    How  can  you !     It  isn't  four  months  ..." 

"  I  am  not  guided  by  the  calendar.  I  don't  mean  to 
let  you  go.  I  did  it  once  before.  ..." 

He  was  so  moved,  holding  her  in  his  arms,  feeling  her 
against  him,  sentient,  struggling,  that  he  was  almost  rude. 
"  Look  what  a  mess  you  made  of  things.  You  really 
can't  take  care  of  yourself,  you  know  that." 

"  Let  me  go !  "    But  her  resistance  was  feeble. 

"  Not  a  chance,"  He  kissed  her  hair,  her  eyes,  the  face 
she  hid. 

"  I  never  make  anything  but  mistakes,"  she  burst  out. 
"  Look  at  Peter  Graham.  ..." 

"  I  would  rather  not,  if  you  don't  mind."  He  put  a 
hand  under  her  chin.  "  I  would  really  rather  look  at 
you." 

"  I  don't  want  you  to  look  at  me."  Her  face  was 
hidden,  more  willingly  now,  on  his  shoulder.  "  I  have 
grown  old,  ugly.  ..." 

"  Hideous,  I  know,  I  have  noticed  it  myself.  You 
will  have  to  go  in  for  face  massage.  Everybody's  do- 
ing it." 


CONCERT    PITCH  377 

"  And  there  is  baby." 

"  I  really  don't  feel  inclined  to  trust  my  godson  with 
you  any  longer.  You  give  him  all  his  own  way  and  spoil 
him  frightfully.  You  don't  think  you  are  fit  to  bring  him 
up  without  me  to  help  you,  do  you  ?  "  His  voice  was 
low,  and  his  lips  against  her  ear;  he  was  always  a  tender 
rather  than  a  passionate  lover. 

"  Do  you  think  you  will  have  finished  all  your  crying 
soon  ? ''  he  asked  her  presently. 

"  I  shall  never  have  finished." 

"  All  right.  But  I  am  getting  so  damp.  I  feel  it 
trickling  down  my  collar ;  it  is  a  lucky  thing  tears  are 
salt,  otherwise  I  should  fear  rheumatism." 

She  tried  again  to  disengage  herself. 

"  Don't  be  silly ;  go  on  crying  if  you  want.  I  can 
always  change  my  collar."  Now  he  had  her  more  com- 
fortably in  his  arms. 

"  I  am  going  to  marry  you  whether  you  like  it  or  not. 
You  need  not  wriggle ;  I  never  supposed  you  would  like 
it.  But  you  must  be  kept  out  of  mischief.  What,  more 
tears?  The  November  floods  are  nothing  to  it.  Man- 
uella,  little  girl,  little  donkey !  My  God !  how  fond  I  am 
of  you,  although  you  are  such  a  responsibility  .  .  .  and 
a  termagant."  His  arms  tightened.  This  time  he  kissed 
her  eyes,  found  her  lips  too.  "  You  have  never  really 
belonged  to  anybody  but  me.  You  are  worse  than  the 
Inland  Revenue  in  the  way  you  are  keeping  me  out  of 
my  own  property.  Lloyd  George  isn't  in  it  with  you. 
Kiss  me,  and  say  it  is  all  right.  You  may  cry  again 
afterwards  if  you  insist." 

She  made  many  protests,  then  and  later.  It  was  "  too 
soon,"  and  she  "  did  not  deserve  to  be  happy,"  she 
had  "  no  fortune,  and  he  could  not  afford  to  marry 
her." 

He  agreed  with  everything  she  said,  cheerfully.  But 
he  went  on  with  his  preparations  exactly  the  same  as  if 
she  had  not  spoken.  It  was  true  that  they  would  have 
to  live  quietly ;  he  was  little  better  off  than  he  had  been 
two  years  ago. 


378  CONCERT    PITCH 

"  Of  course,  Peter  Graham  is  much  richer.  ..." 

But  that  was  a  subject  on  which  she  could  not  bear 
chaff.  When  he  found  this  out  he  pursued  it;  he  liked 
to  make  her  angry.  It  seemed  like  old  times  when  her 
eyes  flashed  and  she  stamped  her  foot  and  said  she  would 
not  allow  him  to  mention  Peter  Graham's  name.  When 
they  began  to  quarrel  the  end  was  very  near.  She  forgot 
to  cry  for  Harston  when  Waldo  teased  her  and  she  got 
angry  and  argued  with  him.  She  had  resented  being 
treated  as  a  child ;  now  somehow  she  no  longer  resented 
it.  She  sought  for  causes  of  quarrel,  so  that  they  should 
make  it  up  afterwards.  He  understood  her  so  much 
better  than  he  had  done  at  first,  better  than  anyone  else 
had  ever  understood  her.  She  was  still  a  mixture  of  child 
and  woman.  But  her  pride  no  longer  baffled  him,  he 
could  banter  and  laugh  at  her.  When  she  got  to  know 
how  he  loved  her,  to  believe  and  rest  in  that  love,  a  great 
peace  fell  upon  her,  a  peace  of  the  heart. 

"  I  will  try  to  be  different,"  she  whispered  to  him 
one  day,  after  an  exhibition  of  childish  rage  which  he 
had  very  deliberately  provoked. 

"  That  is  exactly  what  I  don't  want  you  to  be,"  he 
answered,  as  she  nestled  in  his  arms.  He  laid  his  lips 
gently  against  her  soft  hair.  "  I  have  curious  tastes,  I 
like  you  just  as  you  are." 

"  You  don't  want  a  wife  who  flies  into  ungovernable 
rages  ?  " 

"  I  do.  I  admit  it  is  a  strange  aberration  of  mine. 
How  soon  are  you  going  to  gratify  it  ?  " 

"  You  don't  mean  it  ?  " 

"  I  am  not  surprised  you  think  so.  No,  don't  hit 
me.  ...  " 

Her  heart  shook  when  banter  became  tenderness,  when 
his  lips  strayed  from  her  hair  to  her  delicate  ear. 
"  Manuella,  you  dear  little  fool,  you  darling  little  fool ; 
if  you  don't  marry  me  to-day,  to-morrow,  at  the  latest 
within  a  week,  I  shall  carry  you  off  in  an  aeroplane,  drop 
down  somewhere  on  a  desert  island,  where  there  is  not  a 
parson.  ..." 


CONCERT    PITCH  379 

She  said  afterwards  that  he  shook  her  and  called  her 
names  when  he  asked  her  to  marry  him. 

"  I  am  not  going  to  do  without  you  another  week.  I 
am  going  out  now  to  get  a  special  licence.  ..." 

"  What  a  funny  way  to  kiss  me  ?  "  she  said,  a  few 
minutes  later.  But  he  had  felt  the  response. 

"  I  suppose  it  was,"  he  answered  as  coolly  as  possible 
under  the  circumstances ;  "  let's  try  again.  ..." 


Loetitia  expressed  herself  shocked  when  she  read  that 
the  Earl  of  Lyssons,  with  all  his  titles  tacked  on  in  the 
South  African  paper  which  recorded  it,  had  married  the 
widow  of  a  musician,  of  Signer  Harston  Migotti ! 

"  She  has  not  been  a  widow  six  months !  It  is  posi- 
tively indecent,  in  such  dreadful  taste.  ..." 

"  He's   a   ripping  good   fellow,  mater,"  Albert   said. 

"  He  is  still  the  premier  Earl  of  Great  Britain,"  the 
half-paralysed  Sir  Hubert  reminded  her. 

But  it  was  because  she  had  naturally  a  forgiving  dis- 
position, and  not  on  account  of  her  son-in-law's  pre- 
cedence in  the  peerage,  nor  of  the  letter  from  Lady 
Sallust,  with  the  hint  about  a  peerage  for  Sir  Hubert, 
that  made  Loetitia  write  to  her  stepdaughter.  She  wrote 
quite  warmly,  and  said  that  she  was  glad  to  say  Sir 
Hubert,  under  Providence,  was  progressing  towards  re- 
covery and  that  (P.G.)  they  would  be  in  London  in  time 
for  the  season.  Stone  House  would  be  reopened. 

To  Lord  Lyssons  she  wrote  also : 

"  Sir  Hubert  wishes  me  to  say  that  he  has  not  made 
any  different  disposition  of  his  fortune.  The  arrange- 
ment originally  contemplated  will  be  confirmed.  As  far 
as  Manuella  herself  is  concerned,  I  am  sure  this  will  all 
have  been  a  lesson  to  her.  We  are  quite  ready  to  over- 
look the  past,  to  let  bygones  be  bygones,  to  receive  her  as 


380  CONCERT    PITCH 

if  nothing  had  occurred,  to  look  upon  her  escapade  as 
merely  a  girlish  indiscretion.  ..." 

"  When  they  do  get  that  peerage  I  suppose  they  will 
call  themselves  Lord  and  Lady  Cliche,"  was  Waldo's 
comment.  He  was  then  on  his  honeymoon,  and  not  even 
Loetitia  could  ruffle  him. 


FINIS 


'TpHE  following  pages  contain  advertisements  of  Mac- 
•••    millan  books  by  the  same  author,  and  new  fiction. 


BY  THE  SAME  AUTHOR 


Joseph  in  Jeopardy 


By  FRANK  DANBY 
Author  of  "The  Heart  of  a  Child,"  "Sebastian,"  etc. 

Cloth,  $1.35  net;  postpaid,  $1.45 


This  clever  and  humorous  story  of  a  brilliant  young  man 
exposed  to  subtle  temptations,  surpasses  the  versatile  au- 
thor's previous  successes,  "Pigs  in  Clover,"  "The  Heart 
of  a  Child, "etc. 


What  Leading  Reviewers  Say 

"Finished  workmanship  .  .  .  unflagging  interest  ...  far  and  away  the 
best  novel  Mrs.  Frankau  has  written." — New  York  Tribune. 

"The  book  is  remarkable.  .  .  .  We  prefer  it  over  any  previous  work  from 
the  same  pen." — New  York  World. 

"She  can  paint  a  masterpiece  .  .  .  and  has  done  so  in  the  present  novel. " 
— Philadelphia  Public  Ledger. 

"Thrilling  love  passages  and  a  good  exposition  of  character — a  full  book 
for  grown  men  and  women. " — Kentucky  Post. 

"Amos  Juxton  is  portrayed  with  an  uncommon  sense  of  the  comic  spirit. 
. . .  Has  that  same  quality  which  is  Meredith's  chief  distinction." — The 
New  York  Times. 


THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 
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The  Heart  of  a  Child 


BEING  PASSAGES  FROM  THE  EARLY  LIFE 
OF  SALLY  SNAPE,  LADY  KIDDERMINSTER 


By  FRANK  DANBY 


Cloth,  $1.50 


"'Frank  Danby'  has  found  herself.  It  is  full  of  the  old  wit,  the  old 
humor,  the  old  epigram,  and  the  old  knowledge  of  what  I  may  call  the 
Bohemia  of  London;  but  it  is  also  full  of  a  new  quality,  the  quality  of 
imaginative  tenderness  and  creative  sympathy.  It  is  delightful  to  watch 
the  growth  of  human  character  either  in  life  or  in  literature,  and  in  'The 
Heart  of  a  Child'  one  can  see  the  brilliancy  of  Frank  Danby  suddenly 
burgeoning  into  the  wistfulness  that  makes  cleverness  soft  and  exquisite 
and  delicate.  ...  It  is  a  mixture  of  naturalism  and  romance,  and  one 
detects  in  it  the  miraculous  power  ...  of  seeing  things  steadily  and  see- 
ing them  wholly,  with  relentless  humor  and  pitiless  pathos.  The  book 
is  crowded  with  types,  and  they  are  all  etched  in  with  masterly  fidelity 
of  vision  and  sureness  of  touch,  with  feminine  subtlety  as  well  as  virile 
audacity. " — JAMES  DOUGLAS  in  The  Star,  London. 

"'The  Heart  of  a  Child'  is,  beyond  question,  Mrs.  Frankau's  best 
novel,  carefully  planned,  vividly  suggestive  of  a  real  world  and  real 
character,  touching  the  human  emotions  without  any  more  extravagance 
than  they  contain  themselves,  and  throwing  a  strong  light  upon  London 
and  the  Londoners  of  to-day. " — The  Daily  Evening  Transcript,  Boston. 


Sebastian 

Cloth,  I2mo,  $1.50  net 

Whenever  a  father's  ideals  conflict  with  a  mother's  hopes  for  the  son 
of  their  dreams,  you  meet  the  currents  underlying  the  plot  of  "Sebas- 
tian. "  Its  author's  skill  in  making  vividly  real  the  types  and  conditions 
of  London  has  never  been  shown  to  better  advantage. 

"The  story  begins  realistically,  and  ends  in  romance,  but  the  romance 
is  of  real  life :  every  way  a  remarkable  novel,  and  one  that  confirms  and 
increases  our  admiration  for  its  author's  exceptional  gifts. " —  The  Book- 
man, London. 


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NEW    MACMILLAN    FICTION 


One  Woman's  Life 


By  ROBERT  HERRICK 

Author  of  "Together,"  "The  Healer,"  etc. 

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The  women  characters  of  Robert  Herrick's  books  have  always  been 
peculiarly  significant.  Sometimes  storms  of  protest  have  centred  around 
them  and  the  ideas  of  womankind  which  the  author  has  advanced  through 
them.  But  the  penetration  and  keenness  of  the  analyses  and,  sentiment 
aside,  the  truth  of  the  pictures,  and  the  skill  with  which  they  have  been 
drawn,  have  never  been  denied.  The  fact  that  in  this  new  book  Mr. 
Herrick  gives  his  whole  attention  to  the  story  of  a  woman  is,  therefore, 
an  unusually  interesting  announcement.  Milly  Ridge  is  as  striking  and 
convincing  a  creation  as  has  ever  come  from  his  pen,  and  in  her  struggle 
for  social  supremacy  Mr.  Herrick  has  a  theme  distinctly  modern  and 
admirably  well  suited  to  his  powers. 


Comrade  Yetta 


By  ALBERT  EDWARDS 

Author  of  "A  Man's  World,"  etc. 

Cloth,  ismo,  $1.30  net 

In  Yetta  and  the  story  of  her  evolution  from  a  worker  in  a  sweatshop 
to  a  leader  in  the  unions  and  later  a  writer  on  industrial  and  political 
topics,  Mr.  Edwards  has  as  interesting  material  as  that  which  carried 
his  "A  Man's  World"  to  tremendous  success.  All  those  who  enjoyed 
that  earlier  novel,  and  there  were  many  who  voted  it  the  best  book  in  a 
year  of  notable  ones,  will  be  moved  by  this  work  to  even  greater  admi- 
ration for  Mr.  Edwards's  skill.  It  is  of  love  and  devotion,  of  social  agi- 
tators, disciples  of  socialism,  and  of  industrial  democracy,  that  Mr. 
Edwards  writes,  and  writes  with  distinction,  presenting  the  drama  of  a 
big  city  underworld  with  unerring  comprehension  and  sympathy. 


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Publishers  64-66  Fifth  Avenue  New  York 


NEW    MACMILLAN    FICTION  —  Continued 


Poor,  Dear  Margaret  Kirby 

By  KATHLEEN  NORMS 

Author  of  "Mother,"  "The  Rich  Mrs.  Burgoyne" 

FRONTISPIECE  IN  COLOR 

Decorated  Cloth,  i2mo,  $1.30  net 

Though  Kathleen  Norris  has  become  most  widely  known  through  her 
two  novels,  it  was,  as  is  frequently  the  case,  through  the  short  story 
field  that  she  entered  the  ranks  of  fictionists.  Her  success  in  demon- 
strating that  the  creation  of  the  short  story  is  an  art  of  itself  makes  the 
publication  of  this  collection  of  tales  from  her  pen  most  interesting. 
There  are  probably  many  people  in  this  country  who,  if  asked  to  name 
their  favorite  magazine  writer,  would  name  Mrs.  Norris.  Here  is  gath- 
ered together  the  best  of  the  work  upon  which  this  reputation  rests. 
Stories  of  sentiment,  of  purpose,  humorous  stories,  stories  reflecting  the 
more  serious  phases  of  life,  and  stories  which  were  evidently  written  just 
because  they  afforded  their  author  pleasure,  all  find  a  place  in  this  ver- 
satile volume. 


Patsy 


By  S.  R.  CROCKETT 

Author  of  "Love's  Young  Dream,"  "The  Raiders,"  etc. 

Decorated  Cloth,  istno,  $1.25  net 

A  lively,  saucy  person  is  Patsy,  one  of  the  best  girl  characters  Mr. 
Crockett  has  ever  depicted.  She  is  the  central  figure  in  this  new  Gallo- 
way romance  in  which  smuggling  and  Patsy's  abduction  and  recapture 
by  a  royal  prince  and  all  the  other  good  things  synonymous  with  Mr. 
Crockett's  name  have  a  part.  While  the  book  is  one  of  historical  adven- 
ture, the  love  interest  is  paramount  throughout.  The  time  of  the  story 
is  just  one  hundred  years  ago,  when  the  country  in  which  the  scene  is 
laid  was  in  universal  revolt  against  the  brutal  system  of  compulsory  en- 
listment and  bands  were  being  formed  to  fight  the  manhunters,  and 
smuggling  was  in  full  blast  along  the  shores  of  Solway. 


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The  Impeachment  of  President  Israels 

By  FRANK  B.  COPLEY 

Illustrated,  Cloth,  ismo,  $1.00  net 

This  is  the  story  of  the  impeachment  of  David  Israels,  President  of 
the  United  States,  as  told  by  his  private  secretary.  Instead  of  prepar- 
ing for  war  to  avenge  the  killing  of  four  American  sailors,  President 
Israels  persisted  in  proposals  for  peace,  finally  sending  a  fleet  to  Con- 
stantinople to  celebrate  some  Turkish  anniversary,  which  act  brought 
upon  him  the  terrible  stigma.  All  this,  it  might  be  explained,  has  yet  to 
take  place,  for  Israels  is  a  future  president.  The  effect  of  reality  is  well 
kept  up  by  Mr.  Copley,  who  incidentally  introduces  some  very  whole- 
some truths,  notably  that  the  way  to  realize  universal  peace  is  to  refuse 
even  to  consider  the  possibility  of  war,  that  moral  suasion  is  more  force- 
ful than  physical  threats,  and  that  a  war  resulting  from  mob  panic  and 
hate  is  only  folly  and  wickedness. 


Vanishing  Points 


By  ALICE  BROWN 

Author  of  "The  Secret  of  the  Clan" 

Decorated  Cloth,  izmo,  $1.30  net 

As  a  writer  of  delicately  turned  short  stories,  fine  in  their  execution, 
Alice  Brown  has  few  equals.  She  is  best  known,  perhaps,  for  her  New 
England  tales,  and  there  are  a  number  in  the  present  collection  which 
present  the  true  and  ever  pleasing  atmosphere  of  that  part  of  this  coun- 
try. The  book  is  not,  however,  composed  solely  of  this  kind  of  fiction. 
Not  a  few  of  the  most  interesting  of  the  stories  make  their  appeal  be- 
cause they  rest  on  feelings,  beliefs,  and  characteristics  that  are  universal 
in  human  nature.  One  feels,  as  one  reads  of  the  man  who  thought  that 
as  so  many  people  in  this  broad  land  must  suffer  from  poverty  and  cold 
and  hunger,  he,  too,  should  share  their  lot,  or  of  the  writer  who,  though 
his  success  did  not  appear  to  be  great,  was,  nevertheless,  influencing  the 
work  of  others,  or  of  the  editor  who  took  a  stand  against  the  unfair 
policy  of  his  magazine,  or  of  the  mother  who  saved  her  son  from  the  wiles 
of  an  adventuress,  or  of  any,  in  fact,  of  Miss  Brown's  delightful  charac- 
ters, that  the  art  of  short  fiction  is  at  last  coming  into  its  own. 


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"  There  is  not  another  book  like  this  '  Crock  of  Gold '  in  English 
literature.  There  are  many  books  like  pieces  of  it,  but  the  humor 
and  the  style — these  things  are  Mr.  Stephens's  own  peculiar  gift." 

— The  London  Standard. 


The  Crock  of  Gold 


By  JAMES  STEPHENS 
Author  of  "The  Hill  of  Vision" 

Decorated  Cloth,  I2mo,  $1.25  net 

A  story  of  the  open  air,  of  deep  forests,  of  rock-strewn  pastures  and 
mountain  tops,  and  though  the  human  element  is  not  absent,  of  the 
fairy  folk  of  old  Ireland  with  the  God  Pan  and  the  great  Angus  Og,  this 
is  what  the  author  of  "The  Charwoman's  Daughter,"  who  is,  perhaps, 
better  known  for  his  verse  "The  Hill  of  Vision"  and  "Insurrections," 
tells.  While  the  book  should,  perhaps,  be  regarded  more  as  a  fantasy 
with  a  beautiful  moral  than  an  ordinary  novel,  the  discriminating  reader 
will,  nevertheless,  find  interwoven  with  it  many  a  wise,  witty,  and  pen- 
etrating reflection  on  human  life  and  destiny. 

Press  Opinions 

The  Times — "  It  is  crammed  full  of  life  and  beauty  .  .  .  this  delicious, 
fantastical,  amorphous,  inspired  medley  of  topsy-turvydom. " 

The  Athenaeum.— " In  'The  Crock  of  Gold' Mr.  Stephens  gives  the 
measure  of  a  larger  and  more  individual  talent  than  could  have 
been  absolutely  foretold.  .  .  .  There  has  been  nothing  hitherto  quite 
like  it,  but  it  is  safe  to  prophesy  that  by  and  by  there  will  be  plenty 
of  imitators  to  take  it  for  their  pattern.  .  .  .  Mr.  Stephens  has  pro- 
duced a  remarkably  fine  and  attractive  work  of  art. " 

The  Globe.— "We  have'read  nothing  quite  like  'The  Crock  of  Gold.' 
It  has  a  charm  and  humor  peculiar  to  itself,  and  places  its  author 
high  in  the  ranks  of  imaginative  poetic  writers." 

The  Nation. — "The  final  state  (in  the  case  of  the  reviewer)  was  one  of 
complete  surrender  to  the  author — 'go  on,  go  on,  fiddle  on  your 
theme  what  harmonics  you  will;  this  is  delightful.'.  .  .Mr. 
Stephens's  novel,  'The  Charwoman's  Daughter,'  was  a  remarkable 
book,  and  in  this  one  he  shows  he  can  succeed  as  well  in  quite  other 
directions." 


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NEW    MACMILLAN    FICTION —Continued 

The  Feet  of  the  Furtive 

By  CHARLES  G.  D.  ROBERTS 

Author  of  "The  Backwoodsmen,"  "Neighbors  Unknown,"  etc. 
Illustrated  by  PAUL  BRANSON 

Decorated  Cloth,  i2tno,  $1.35  net 

It  is  to  be  doubted  whether  there  is  a  more  popular  animal  writer 
to-day  than  Charles  G.  D.  Roberts  whose  stories  of  the  inhabitants  of 
forests  and  streams  are  read  with  pleasure  by  young  and  old  alike.  In 
this  book  are  brought  together  some  of  his  most  interesting  tales.  The 
bear,  the  bat,  the  seal,  the  moose,  the  rabbit,  and  other  animals  are  here 
made  vivid  in  their  life  and  habits.  Mr.  Roberts  has  true  imaginative 
touches  in  his  way  of  writing  about  the  woods  and  their  denizens.  But 
he  is  not  open  to  the  charge  of  misrepresenting  the  facts  in  order  to  make 
a  good  story.  As  one  well-known  critic  said,  "He  does  not,  in  giving 
animals  life,  turn  them  into  half  humans;  but  he  takes  their  pathos, 
their  tragedy,  their  drama,  on  the  animal  level  and  writes  for  them  as 
though  they  had  their  own  interpreter  whispering  in  his  ear. " 


The  Idiot 


By  FYODOR  DOSTOEVSKY 

Author  of  "The  Brothers  Karamazov, "  etc. 
From  the  Russian  by  Constance  Garnett. 

Cloth,  ismo,  $1.50  net 

"We  welcome  on  behalf  of  the  reading  public  this  version  of  the  great 
Russian  novelist's  work,"  writes  the  Literary  Digest  upon  the  publica- 
tion of  The  Brothers  Karamazov,  the  first  of  this  new  series.  "We  call 
attention,"  the  Literary  Digest  continues,  "to  the  excellence  of  Con- 
stance Garnett's  translation.  She  seems  quite  to  enter  into  the  spirit  of 
the  original. "  Commenting  on  this  same  point,  the  Providence  Journal 
says,  "When  it  was  announced  that  Mrs.  Garnett  had  undertaken  the 
translation  of  Dostoevsky,  the  news  filled  lovers  of  Russian  literature 
with  rejoicing.  There  could  be  no  doubt  that  no  living  translator  was 
so  well  fitted  as  Mrs.  Garnett  to  perform  this  much  needed  work,  and 
certainly  in  no  other  way  could  the  discussion  of  Dostoevsky's  greatness 
be  better  settled  than  by  giving  the  public  a  chance  to  read  in  a  trans- 
lation as  dose  as  possible  to  the  spirit  of  the  original  all  the  works  of  this 
extraordinary  and  ill-regulated  genius. " 

The  Idiot  is  one  of  Dostoevsky's  most  interesting  novels  and  one  which 
reveals  him  in  a  light  somewhat  different  from  that  shown  by  The  Broth- 
ers Karamazov.  Presumably  it  will  go  to  strengthen  the  impression  al- 
ready common  that  Dostoevsky  deserves  to  be  ranked  along  with  those 
two  great  Russian  writers  more  widely  known  in  this  country — Tolstoy 
and  Turgenev.  

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